


The Dance of Kings

by CousinNick



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Eventual Smut, Levi is not happy, M/M, Magic, Multi, Nonbinary Hange Zoë, Not a furry fic no yiff here nuh uh, Other, Trans Character, Trans Jean is best Jean, Trans Male Character, Who doesn't like wolves?, Witches and Wolves Princes and Love, Wolf AU, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinNick/pseuds/CousinNick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confessing to your beloved is difficult when you are a King, but even more so when you are the King of Wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wolf Grown King and a Human Grown Prince

This is the story, complete and to the succinct and lovely point, of a Wolf King who fell in love with a Prince.  
  
It would be no great and glorious tale indeed if that was the only juicy morsel of the telling, but as luck would have it—the plot thickens.  
  
The affection chosen by the Wolf King’s heart was rare indeed, perhaps even forbidden in its dangerous allure—for he had surely fallen in love with someone and something that has been his kin’s enemy for as long as tales of love and hate have been spun.  
  
Still, love is disagreeable with the mind’s idea of good sense and bad, and as such we can only pity and not scold the Wolf King for his less than advantageous choice.  
  
It was a love groomed from slight glances, since the Wolf King was a young sprawling pup and had not the good ability to venture too close outside the forest’s shady branches. Young he was, not yet a king but a small prince, falling over his own paws and getting his nose stuck into every log hollow and every patch of stinging nettle that could be found around the dens.  
  
He still had his baby fur upon the first glance of the other, his mane thick as blackened night itself and ticked with cedar-brown for stars. Spying upon the carriage being pulled by beasts of burden he at the time had only yawned as his mother hunched over him with her weight, cloaking him in her own fur that matched the color of peat and acorn tops. He hadn’t known it then, but he would learn out of necessity that the long trailing line of funny looking creatures who walked on two legs instead of four like any civilized beings, were the greatest threat to his destined kingdom. They would also become his greatest curiosity.  
  
That was not the only sighting of the prince, for there were many others while the Wolf King was growing up and being groomed, literally and figuratively, for his station. As they were both young, the wolf pup would catch sightings of this creature stuffing his face in later summer with blackberries ripe and sweet, not a sour kernel about them. He watched the other taste the berries of the forest, cry when a thorn pricked his flesh, and subsequently make such a racket that his governess, whom was perhaps looking for him the entire time, would whisk him up in her arms and take him back to the stone structure that the pup learned was a castle. That was what his parents had called it, with venom on their jowls as they spoke about those that lived in the castle, about the boy who no longer went to the forest to pick blackberries but stayed inside the stone.  
  
That was how Marco, with softened eyes supposedly trained with the best judgment, turned themselves to his impossible love—a human.  
  
This boy that he had fancied was not born in a den mewling politely and kneading at his mother’s belly—no. He was born wet, bloodied, naked, hairless, pink and howling with gums as soft as mud and face as doughy as Lammas bread. He grew out of the being wet and bloodied phase, thankfully, and as all humans learn to do he stopped howling as much as he passed his teens, but he still on the off chance was naked, he still was pink and hairless, and he still was human.  
  
At first the next bought of interactions happened due to curiosity that woodland creatures naturedly had, though Marco was not a mere country wolf with mere instinctual curiosity. No, he was born to an illustrious breed of wolf, twice removed from the common gray wolf, advanced from the hound and dog, and set upon a pedestal as a species standing taller than a well sized man and weighing more than a cart pony and the cart it carried. He was a wolf of the Enchanted Forest and through a good strong bloodline had the regal air of fortune upon him.  
  
Conversely, in the time that the wolf’s human grew to a spindly five foot nine inches and his baby teeth had made way for adult ones, Marco too had grown into his bones and was a marvelous and kingly adult. No longer was he a pup with flopping ears and a nose that was always being nipped by his mother for bad manners. He grew to be patient in hunting the deer by the many streams in his territory, he grew kind to the wayward coyote that strayed from its pack, and in his manner he hardly ever yipped out of turn unless necessary for the order of things. He had, of all accounts, grown up into a sizeable young wolf of exceeding qualities. It was because of this that he had ruled as a fair most noble leader to his pack, strong and silent but always a gentleness to him about the eyes that made one reconsider all the foolish tales of little girls in red cloaks getting gobbled up by hungry curs.  
  
Oh yes he was young and handsome, ah, by wolf standards, of course.  
  
His heart’s affection, however, was a lithe speck of a prince, fourth in line for the throne, who had by now grown a passion for arguing about manuscripts to anyone who would listen and reading aloud the passages that he had not yet memorized to terrorize his father’s conversation at meal times.  
  
Quite different indeed, but they do say opposites attract—and therefore the love must be exceedingly well off if it is to be created between opposite species, entirely!  
  
Marco was satisfied to know that his human at least did not grow up to be a brute like men so often did, though that was all Marco could speak of about the human for the longest time. For a while, the Wolf King simply did not lay eyes on him, either of his own accord by way of chores and diplomatic duties or by the unluckiness of the day. As such, seeing less and less of him as they aged, he could not safely discern what his human was like now. He did not know if he still ate blackberries like a greedy crow, if his hair was still long like ropes of matted hay, if he still had cheeks chubby like dough.  
  
As such, Marco had quieted the murmurs of his heart to mere sighing breaths each time he laid his burnt amber eyes on the Prince in passing. Those times were few and none too long in length; for no human—unless armed with snorting mount and drawn bow or dagger—would wander too long at the forest’s edge. Not only was it clouded with confusing shallow mist that swam, but also peppered with pesky crows that flew too low to human’s heads and twisted up in their hair. It was stated too, and Marco knew it to be true, that a witch and their familiar lived deep in the hollowed woods of white pine and birch. Apparently not fond of humans any more than the wolf clan was, they would do wicked things to anyone who stepped into their path.  
  
Thusly, to get an eyeful of the two-toned blond prince (for now his hair had been shorn underneath like an ewes), whether on his daily trot round the grounds or his delays from the gray peaked castle from carriages drawn by large beasts of harness—was a feat in and of itself. Nevertheless, Marco felt truly blessed when his eyes were fed and his heart famished.  
  
Whenever such occurrences happened, he made sure to keep his leathery paws even on the wet leaves and deadened logs, to duck low and train his eyes upon each prick of the horses ear in the silly march, each tint of color in the Prince’s too pale face, every glint on all the princes swords as they guffawed and galloped ahead on foot till mud caked on their boots.  
  
None of them would go in the forest except to bring back a haunch of venison for the table or a boar’s carcass for the spit—for that Marco was sure, but it still raised his hackles when he heard them approach. Only the sight of Jean, for that was the prince’s lovely name, could dull his senses. When Jean was around, he was as alert as a senile hunting dog; chasing its tale for the excitement of thinking it was a fox at last.  
  
However, the circumstances still remained, the Enchanted Forest was no place for a prince, and the kingdom of man was no walking grounds for a Wolf King. The humans that smelled of rotted meat and dust simply thought the wolves barbaric eaters who attacked not only livestock but humans as well, plucking them from roads as east as snatching fledglings from a nest. The humans were no better in their treatment of the wolves, harnessing the power of the anvil and coal to make monstrous weapons to hunt and skin the wolves for sport and their luxurious fur. Because Marco’s kind were so big, a good tanning would produce a pelt able to wrap around a young lad thrice! Therefore, a wolf in these parts was more valuable dead than alive.  
  
It was these reasons, and Marco’s dutifully approached kingly duties, that fettered and barred the King from adventuring on whims to catch a glimpse of the prince. Occasionally though, as rare as a ripe blackberry in June, Marco would be able to sneak off to snatch a moment for himself to walk along the edge of the forest where the hazelnut groves were thickest and the streams the thinnest. These quiet sightings, however, were usually months apart.  
  
His hearts quickness for the other had occurred quite sweetly, from whenever he could catch a faraway sighting of the young man with his keen eyes, he was delighted. Though hairless except for some downy softness atop his head, he was a pleasure to behold for the Wolf King; all decorated in his earthen color tunics that made his face pale like milk. His mannerism of sourness, softened with loveliness only by the passion in his voice, were intriguing to say the least and he was better behaved than his elder brothers. His scent was pleasing too, for Marco could now hone in on it if he wished to smell the melody of the coarse honey sweetened bread that Jean must take for his meals.  
  
Sometimes, if Marco risks treading the path outside the forest bounds and past the apple orchard that buzzed with wasps getting fat on the fallen harvest, he can see Jean all for himself.  
  
The youngest of the princes had a love of books, Marco had found out quite early on in his watching. Ones with spines that slouched into the paper, pushing it out so that the Prince had to fiddle to push them back in. Ones with red ink instead of gold and ones with gold ink emboldened in red. Marco himself could not read, but sometimes Jean would save a verse or read a page aloud and Marco would sit, belly to the ground, and listen under a wiry bush beyond the garden, absorbing the language that he knew how to speak just fine in.  
  
It was pure magic to have Jean to himself in that garden, where things did not grow wild, but where instead tamed and coddled into their beauty. It was not a place that Marco ever thought he would have found so peaceful, and yet he always seemed to drift into a state of happiness above, watching the sparrows hunt the bees above, listening to the voice of a beloved.  
  
How he would have longed to have a proper human form to be able to approach the prince who had stolen his heart. He could only speak the human tongue, but that alone was not enough to have his love returned. He simply could not appear human, could not forsake his wolf’s blood, his one trespass onto his heart’s want.  
  
It was in this way that the young wolf’s affection for the human grew steadily, like how in the spring the first trees begin to clamor with life budding from their boughs. Still, Marco’s fondness and despair for the other bloomed faster and withered quicker than any blossom—nothing coming to fruit. It was on a day such as that, when the thoughts of wanting gnawed at Marco’s heart instead of the contentedness of a garden’s haven, that everything changed.  
  
Jean, the youngest prince in the kingdom beside the Enchanted Forest, had reached his twentieth birthday, and was now old enough to go hunting in the woods with his elder brothers.  
  
With the surest threat against his kin looming in the air of ever scent of a hunting horse and every crack of an arrow splitting pine, Marco had resolved to follow the hunting party in the hopes of dissuading them from an attack on those under Marco’s protection, should such a demise be plotted. There was, of course, also the inkling of hope that Jean would prove to dislike the sport all together and snap his bow in two, never to use it again. Marco could only dream, but he knew how the humans culled their worth through the sportsmanship of it and Marco would not be surprised if the game these men were after was one of Marco’s own.  
  
Another important mention of consequence was the prince’s brothers. While never meeting the other three, he himself had heard how Jean let loose his anger whenever spitting out their names in agony. If they proved to be the unsavory type, it would mean Marco might find his jaws round one of their ankles, and for that he knew Jean would surely think him a monster.  
  
They took their horses into the sparse roots of fir, the sleek mares pricking their ears this way and that, trying to unearth the movement in the bushes behind them but finding such a feat unsuccessful—Marco was much too careful.  
  
He should make them charge, nip at the dapple gray’s heels—he had watched how that one startled the easiest at the motion of a robin in the thrush or an acorn dropping from the clumsy hands of a rodent—and have the horses yank the reins right from the brother’s hands. They themselves would be too spooked to ever return. Marco licked his jaws and surpassed a whine that, of course, would include Jean. Marco was much too selfish for that.  
  
“Look, a wolves den! Jean, that could be your first big kill! Maybe father will stop complaining about you over dinner if you snare what’s inside, eh?” Whispered the middle brother, his face soft with ale and eyes wide with excitement at the beginning of a slaughter. Jean himself turned to the crumbling earth slopping above them. Sure enough, situated between a boulder and some barren mulberry bushes, was the beginnings of a cavernous den.  
  
Marco, terrified for his kin, strains on his hind legs in a crouch ready to spring forth and leap atop the seated man, dragging him the ground and away from the mound of earth that Marco knew to house relatives a plenty.  
  
Scowling, Jean spurred his horse down and away from the slope, his neck craned to the three in disgust. While not nearly as strong as they were in brawns, Jean could scramble to make up for it in sharp tongue and faux confidence. Marco himself can even, if he strains his gaze, see that Jean’s eyes look very much a wolfish color, shaded with a sense of aggressive guardedness that Marco had never thought humans could possess.  
  
“You idiots never read a book? It’s probably a mother and her cubs.” He huffed, not bothering to see their slackened jaws close in frustration. It was only when Marco trailed them a good distance away from the den, that his hackles began to lower and he allowed himself to silently commend the youngest prince on his knowledge and good graces.  
  
All throughout the path wrought with oak and peat moss, the brothers attempted to taunt their youngest into turning round his horse and making an easy kill of the wolf mother. They filled Marco’s peaceful forest with ideas of clubbing the cubs with sticks so as not to bruise the precious fur, of whining about how they had not had a hot flank of wolf since last Yule. It was a pity, they stated with indignation, to turn away from such a find. Marco wished to remove them from the very horses they sat atop proudly, with his jaws.  
  
However, each time such a cruel thought was spoken, Marco’s champion of affections, would snap at them with insults of cowardice, stupidity, and plain villainy. After a full ten minutes of this, the other three lads began to see no fun in it and left the subject of the she-wolf alone. She was probably bony from feeding her pups anyway, they muttered. Not fat enough for them.  
  
Though filled with jeering and jabs that had Marco and Jean both bristle, the hunting trip was not a complete waste.  
  
In order to stave off the chatter of the eldest brothers, Jean had been watchful with his eyes, dismounting his horse to lead on foot. Boots so quiet, the stealthiest of the humans even startling Marco who trotted after him, Marco watched Jean pause. Darting to his left, like a brown speck galloping over the red of the forest floor, a rabbit went.  
  
In an instant Marco watched his human bound along with it, pouncing on the ground with speed but little beauty. It was then that Marco, from a distance, heard the pleasing sound of bones cracking, the hare limp and dead.  
  
It was an impressive catch and one worth praising, Marco swooning something awful, curbing himself in his delight. He wished to howl in order to exclaim Jean’s triumph, but he thought better of it, shifting back into the shadows of the woods, satisfied that the brothers had filled their knapsacks with enough game and would be content to leave the forest in peace.  
  
Marco was sure that if Jean were a wolf in blood, body, and mind, that the other wolves that were Marco’s kin would be pleasantly surprised as well. A good hunter always makes a pleasing mate, and Jean would have qualified as most suitable.  
  
After loping down the slender trails back to the cluster of hidden dens, Marco trotted in a daze to his own den, his littlest cousins jumping up on hind legs to lick at his muzzle and chin. Marco humored them slightly, giving them a few nips on their fine felted ears before nudging them back to their dens. It was getting dark and rain was supposed to fall from the mists above.  
  
Once burrowed in his den and settled for the night, as no one would disturb him with less important news if he were taking his rest, Marco began to nose at his paws. Cinching his teeth at a few blackberry thorns lodged in between his toes, he found himself daydreaming.  
  
He thought of short noses on wide faces, of eyes that reflected gold as good as any wolves’, of limbs coming out of hands and ending in blunt nails not worth the effort to hunt with. He thought of short hair that must be terribly ill suited to keep one warm, of smooth skin like a pup’s belly, of a voice that couldn’t make a howl sound convincing enough but could still cause the hair at the nape of his neck to stand at attention. He thought of the word ‘mate’ and what it meant and then he thought that it was time.  
  
Marco needed to make himself known, needed to converse with the man who had gained his affection so easily, too easily.  
  
Resting his muzzle on his paws he allowed himself to drift into a thinly veiled sleep, praying that the sound of his pounding heart would not wake him up in the middle of the night to remind him of the brashness of his decision. He was King, he could speak to whomever he liked, as long as his partner was willing. Why should he not engage in his own pleasure to talk to the one whom he loved?  
  
Falling asleep to these thoughts, he silently hoped that his human speech wasn’t as rusty as he was afraid it was, for that would do no good to him tomorrow when he went to speak to Prince Jean. It never crossed his mind either, that in his hearts of hearts, he had confessed to loving a human.  
...


	2. Fond of Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What better way to fall in love than over a book?

Before the morning cracked itself open and the colors of red and orange spilled out over the forest floor, Marco had removed himself from his den with a graceful quietness that did not wake even one sleeping morning dove from its nest.  
  
He had a slew of duties that would have to wait till he came home, though as long as his kind were fed and curled up in their dens, he should not have to worry for them. The ground was wet already from last night’s rainfall and while the pups would perhaps wish to play in the puddles, he knew the rain had washed away any scent his kingdoms hollows and dens might leave. No danger would approach his kin, and it was with that knowledge that he happily loped through the forest, wet mud flecking his hind legs and stomach.  
  
As a wolf his size, it was quite a feat to actually enter the garden where he knew his beloved frequented. He was not large enough to jump over the mortar and bedrock walls that looked to be made of ashen bones, nor was he patient enough to duck under the wall. It was only after much circling and sour whining that he found a gated latch with wrought iron bars just enough apart for him to slide through, his fur barely catching on the hinges.  
  
Sinking immediately to his belly, he wobbled like a fool low to the ground till he could crouch under bush and hedge. It was in that way that he settled under a hydrangea bush, the cluster of flowers speckled with mid-morning mist that tinged everything with a cold sweetness.  
  
His Prince was bundled against the damp cold, thin shoulders wrapped tight in a cloak buttoned and folded by a broach, the spoke of the circlet in the shape of a leaping hare. Perhaps his father or one of his brothers had it made especially for him in honor of his first kill, Marco mused, the delight of picking such an accomplished and fast hunter for his consort not having worn off.  
  
Marco himself should like to present the Prince with gifts of his own, precious stones dug up near crumbling mountains, swan feathers all shimmering white, run away horses lost in the forest and fit for the taking—all gifts that a young human prince should take delight in, Marco thought to himself, fidgeting under the cover of sweet flowers.  
  
Eyes blinking softly, Marco watched the man stare down at his book, a usual picture each time Marco was able to catch him alone and in the garden. However, he seemed to have not turned the page in a while.  
  
Marco nosed as his paw, a nervous tendency he had when watching Jean, each time he thought of talking a huff of breath slipped through his throat instead of the words he greatly wished to speak.  
  
Seconds passed and still Marco could not make a sound, scowling at his own fear of rejection. He had talked to bears upon great cliffs, had wrestled challenger wolves into the ground to defend his kin, had swam through a rushing river’s currant to save a drowning pup, and yet here he was, dry mouthed and humbled, too scared to talk to the man he adored. Raising his head softly, the blue of the flowers crowning his brow and poking his ears, Marco swallowed.  
  
“Your highness—” Marco started, poking his nose through the foliage before a startled gasp made him by instinct bow down in a defensive stance.  
  
Watching Jean close his book and look wildly this way and that, Marco instantly felt the shame of knowing he had spooked Jean with his brashness. Recoiling from his stance he felt like a chastised pup.  
  
“Who are you?!” Jean suddenly gathered enough courage to growl after the silence of the other, and it was a sound that Marco was fond enough to say sounded like a wolves’.  
  
“Forgive me sir, I had...merely noticed that you seemed distracted.” Marco paused delicately, opening and closing his mouth like he knew humans to do—a very rude gesture, always closing and opening their jaws like they were chewing or catching flies with their mouths. Marco would have to explain to his kin once he and Jean were better acquainted as consorts that it was merely a human quirk, not bad breeding but a cultural difference. He was sure they would understand—wolves, he had observed, were less bound by stuffy traditions than humans.  
  
Jean, his hand closed firmly over the book, sat hunched like a cat getting ready to spit and hiss at the next thing that moved in front of its line of vision. Licking his lips and wiping his red stained face, he turned to a lumpy witch hazel bush all gaudy in its yellow.  
  
“That is none of your concern, now reveal yourself to me at once.” His voice was scrambling to gain a shred of authority that Marco knew he had not. This man was pliant and yet prickly, pent up with anger at being told what to do instead of being asked what should be done. While the youngest, he was royal in his own right, and Marco himself would be happy to place Jean on equal standing with him, if it would make the Prince ease in his tension.  
  
Though Marco was of course of higher rank, a King in every aspect of the word and title, he was a kind wolf and cherished his fairness more than his bite.  
  
“Well, let me see you! Do not skulk!” Jean chattered his teeth again and Marco wanted to smile with amusement at the order. He would not take offense; he could see that he had intruded upon Jean’s privacy most unflatteringly.  
  
“I am simply tending to this flower bush.” Marco began to sway his massive tail against the crooks of the hydrangea flowers, wiggling about like a puppy with fleas till the papery flowers shook to give Jean a clue about where the mysterious voice was coming from. It didn’t take Jean long to have his curious gaze settled in the right direction.  
  
“So you are a servant? And you thought you could visit me in my private garden?” Marco would blush if wolves could do so; instead he merely lowered his snout to the ground and tried hard not to whine.  
  
“I had not been told that this was a private area.”  
  
Jean paused, seeming to consider the truth in the other’s words.  
  
“Well...it’s not private, exactly. But no one else comes here.” The words were soft and it made Marco feel even worse, that he had somehow spoiled a place of peace and serenity—perhaps the only place like that for the Prince in the entire stout castle.  
  
The silence passed and it made Marco feel sicker with his own foolishness as the seconds blew away in the wind joined by the leaves of swept wisteria and dahlia. He would be content to merely stare at Jean forever instead of have the pleasure and privilege of engaging in another word with the handsome other, if that was the price to be paid.  
  
Though, however content the wolf was to stew in his quiet thoughts plagued with manner and courtesy, the Prince was getting antsy and most of all impatient.  
  
“Finish gardening and leave me in peace.” The Prince huffed at last, snapping the spine of his book across his thigh before he ran the tip of his fingers over the title that was not there upon the journal.  
  
Heart quickening at the thought of being bided to leave, Marco bit softly at his tongue in frantic thought before he blurted out words that started as a yelp and ended as a hum.  
  
“Would you like a better book? You seemed bored.”  
  
Marco watched Jean’s honey-burned eyes flare with annoyance. “I wasn’t... I wasn’t bored!” He stammered and Marco winced. Humans were tricky to read, goodness! They scrunched their faces, surely, but they talked too much with their voice and ends of their mouths. It was the eyes, the eyes that were the key to communication, every wolf knew, but Marco just was not close enough to see anything but their color. He could not see how they softened when a breeze blew by, more comforting than cold. He could not ponder if Jean was musing or merely releasing tension after a thought. The mystery of the human Prince was feeding flames of affection in Marco’s mind.  
  
"My apologies, Prince Jean." Marco spoke gently, pleasantly, in a manner that would make anyone else, even a fretting prince, take the hint of diplomacy spoken in the wolf’s voice.  
  
Marco watched those pointed shoulders sag and fall, legs clad in wool trousers heave up upon the block of marble that was the favored bench. Marco watched as Jean relaxed, eyes still staring at the bush that from time to time shook dew from its leaves.  
  
"I was…perhaps letting my mind wander. I spoke too harshly.” Jean mumbled, hugging the book to his chest. He looked small now more than ever, hunched into himself, but Marco could tell he was forgiven of his previous trespasses and now was just shy. Nodding and making the bush give and sway a little, Marco hummed his understanding.  
  
“Though, why will you not show your face?" Jean asked, some annoyance in his tone. Using the back of his sleeve to wipe his cold nose he stared at the bush and waited.  
  
“I….thought it would be easier this way. To...to talk to you without overstepping my boundaries and getting in trouble.” Marco was pleased with his reasons, though he spoke them as if he was lying. He still could not shake off the feeling that he was lying, lying about his reasons, his station, and his species!  
  
“So you did sneak in here to talk to me?” Jean's eyes had taken to narrowing now, leaving Marco to squirm and fidget along the soft dirt. He could feel twigs poke his underbelly and curious finches peeking from the cracks in the branches.  
  
“You looked lonely.” He said softly, quietly.  
  
Jean felt the tenseness of the cold seep into his bones, eyes fixated on the gravel at his feet that had been carried and drained by the rain, leaving ugly streaks of mulish yellow like dried rivers around him. Lonely. Was he lonely?  
  
Indeed he was, terribly so. But, he was not about to let this stranger know anything about what he felt nor how he felt it. Before Jean could then chastise this man for not fettering his tongue, the stranger spoke again, this time much too kindly, as if trying to placate the tension in the air that he knew he had created.  
  
"What is it that you are reading?" He asks and Jean wants to frown, but the weight on his lips does not come, instead it rises to show a smile—small, but still there.  
  
Marco knew he had regained the highness’ favor with such a question, and one put into such good thought! For wolves could not read, stories told through speech were the preferred way to pass the time for his kin. Not that there was anything wrong with reading. It was simply that wolves had no books of their own—for who would want a nice cozy den cluttered with books that grew moldy and dusty? Though, if dried, the leaves of pages made lovely bedding.  
  
Marco could only guess what the humans would write in those things, so many of them, all in the same shape of blocks and filled with squiggles in the curious way that humans write. Marco would always prefer oral histories and stories himself, but to each their own!  
  
Jean relaxes in his seat once more, back still straight and hands curled around the new topic of discussion. There is no danger here and he feels it in the air, like a deer carefully listening to distinguish the sound of footfalls from rain.  
  
“Do not laugh, but it is a book on all we know about the creatures of the forest yonder.” Jean blinked slowly, waiting for either chastisement or jeering from the person in the bush. The Enchanted Forest was not a subject to be taken lightly. One only went inside those woods in an attempt to domesticate it, to cull it of its animals to drain it of its water and to thin it of its timber. It held no beauty in the minds of those who had lived so long aside it. Even Jean, though his curiosity was ensnared, was still wary of the woods and would not travel in them alone.  
  
Marco, however, felt his heart soar at the possibility that his beloved was becoming well versed in those that made the forest their home. Of the hawks that lazily flew overhead, of the boars that shuffled around in packs, of the mule deer, the badger, the snakes and foxes. Of the mythical beings and animals that Marco had only seen in fleeting and never in greeting. Of the wolves in the Enchanted Forest.  
  
“And…the chapter you were on?” Marco asked, hesitantly, his toes flexing and his claws digging into the softness of the dirt and decay underneath them.  
  
Thumbing the book open, Jean flipped casually, only the shake in his wrist giving so much as a flick. Marco was indeed happy that the Prince seemed calmer now, his own nerves jumping from curiosity.  
  
Upon reaching the page he had fretfully been devouring and mulling over and over again still, Jean pursed his lips. “The chapter on Wolves. There is only one page.” He inhales and turns back to the bush, waiting a gasp or a shake of the other’s shoulders; perhaps the gardener is crossing himself.  
  
The bush is silent, as Marco rests his teeth on his tongue, his big eyes staring at the human who has not yet realized he talks to a wolf, he sits and converses with a creature whom he has been taught will yank out his throat and eat it in front of him. Marco felt his gut kick, feeling a threat tickle his fur. He stamped it down, realizing Jean had not said anything to let Marco feel this fear. Perhaps he was genuinely interested in kin and not how their fur would look on a coat or how best to fetter them.  
  
“And, how, if I may ask, does it read?” The Wolf King murmured, finding human speech harder than ever to achieve on this subject.  
  
Jean frowned, eyes skimming the books page that he had since now memorized. It was horrid, slander in writing and vile with ink. Jean scowled as the words played over his mind “monstrous,” “devilish,” “murderers in the shadows.” They could not be true, could not be relayed as factual in this little book proposed as wondrous and detailed. Surely there was more to the story of the wolves than this.  
  
“It is nothing but trash, not good enough to read twice.” Jean huffed, shoving the book from him, ridding his hands of its leathery feeling.  
  
Marco chuckled, softly, but there was hardly any laughter in it. “And yet you’ve read it several times?” He teased, and thankfully Jean smiled.  
  
“I was forming an opinion, one must be very sure of all that they say.”  
Marco grinned, the smell of the heady flowers by now making him grow dizzy.  
  
“Ah, you are a man who speaks with truth and carefulness?”  
  
“Aye.” Jean made a motion to laugh but yawned instead. “Oh do forgive me, I have been out here all morning and the cold has made me tired.” He hummed and Marco thought it was the most beautiful noise that had ever embraced the air.  
  
“I shan’t keep you any longer my Prince, but may that I ask one thing? Since you are so careful with your words and convictions?” Marco raised himself, his limbs shaking from their stiffness. He would certainly be sore come morning but somehow that did little to vex him.  
  
“Would it be alright if I joined you in the garden some more, whenever our paths happen to cross?” Marco asked, feeling the smallest pricks of anxiousness in his chest at his bold proposal.  
  
Jean, however, seemed pleased to agree, and shook his head warmly. “I would enjoy that, some good company with one who is not afraid to speak his mind to a Prince is rare indeed.”  
  
Marco laughed, fully then, and watched Jean stand up. He watched the Prince dust his pants and tuck the offending book under his arm, fiddling his gloves tight over his small pink fingers that Marco mused had the shortest nails he had ever seen upon a creature. Those humans, such a funny sort.  
  
“I shall await your company then, for another day.” The Prince smirked and made a move to bow, but stopped himself. “Oh my goodness, talking to you is like talking to a normal human being, not one of those stuffy nobles or heiresses.” Jean laughed to himself, making Marco smile with the irony of it all, he felt such delight that the young Prince was so taken with him.  
  
“I should like to think you have never conversed with the likes of me, Prince Jean.” Marco hummed to himself as he struggled to turn himself this way and that in the bush. He watched as the Prince, nodding and laughing and yawning to himself, walked back through the garden, passing the flowers and honeybees with a kinder smile than when he entered.  
  
Upon trotting out from the garden that would soon become a favorite place for the Wolf King, Marco was struck with uncontrolled glee. So happy was he that upon loping into the forest of his domain he let a great howl loose, hoping his beloved would hear it from his tower and think fondly of his wolf.


	3. Bloodlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince with a bloodline is to be expected, though Jean's is as exceptional as it is peculiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning, mention of Menstrual blood.

He of course would come back to the garden.  
  
The nature of the wolf is to pine and dance around matters delicately, to be aware of the slightest flick of the eyes, of a nose in mid sniff, of an ear twitching its feelings. Reading a human, however, had become quite the struggle for the Wolf King and while he knew Jean to be friendly enough with him, he knew not if he considered him a worthy consort.  
  
Humans also smelled different, like the flesh, fur, and wool of the animals they wore and the fermented drinks they swallowed, and it was hard to catch a whiff of what they really thought. With a wolf, it was easy, polite even, to take a sniff of one’s kin to tell what they needed, how they were, if they could make do with a grooming or a nip on the ear.  
  
Though Marco knew he longed to see the other again, he knew not the extremity of the other’s attachment, if growth could be hoped for of if Marco himself should content his thoughts to friendship only.  
  
It would be rude of course to ask Jean outright what his intentions were with these meetings, if what he had in mind was similar to what Marco wished, and so the wolf kept his thoughts to himself. In doing so, for these were the thoughts that were rampantly swarming his mind, he was quiet and cautious in all his Kingly duties.  
  
In fact, a month had passed and the rain had sopped up most of the land in vibrant dew. The ewes could be heard bleating over the fattened pumpkins, gnawing at the prickly vines. The sound of wagon wheels had sounded again along the meadow where the humans congregated due to the mud drying and once more there was hope in the Wolf King’s heart of seeing his beloved. Marco had especially wished that during their time apart Jean could smell the scent of autumn in the air, a pleasing scent of most of the wolves in the forest.  
  
It was autumn in full decay when they met again, Jean smiling and Marco nosing at his paws underneath the same hydrangea bush that had started to smell of wet dog. The meeting was in secret, of course, as the many other meetings that would occur.  
  
It added a mysterious element that Jean found thrilling, and Marco liked the idea of selfishly having Jean’s silvery voice and slim smiles all to himself.  
  
Thus, whenever Marco had a spare moment, the large wolf would humble himself to be a mere voice in a bush—without the biblical connotations—and think himself dashing as he chatted and bantered with his friend who he cherished. Jean had confessed to the other that he had often sat at the bench, and before even opening his book, had wondered if the other would approach. Such confessions as these sat in their minds for a stretch of time that was much too long for a human's clock to count and too long for a wolf's patience to wait.  
  
It was on one morning, when the rooster was quieted by the already yellowing clouds in the sky, that their usual greeting of pleasantries was interrupted by the keen senses of a wolf.  
  
Marco had just slipped past the cold railing of the gate that guarded the garden, his paws silent as they loped and jumped over holly’s prickly leaves and the mounds of iris bulbs that looked to be skulls piled high on the grounds that boasted such sweet company.  
  
Burrowing down into the flowers that had given sway to his berth, growing outward from the little cave of sweetness and blue that they produced, Marco sat himself down as quietly as he could. His eyes flickered up with joy upon seeing Jean, wrapped in a shawl of deer hide and faded red wool. He watched the man twitch his fingers over the latest novel, something about a sea voyage and mutiny—Jean had only barely started reading it during their last visit and already he appeared to be almost done.  
  
Grinning with his wolfish teeth, Marco opened his jaws to tease the other, to yip about how the water was so vast and apparently beautiful that not one little books read could hardly water the thirst that a prince would have—yet that was before he smelled it.  
  
At first whiff, Marco was curious in placing the scent.  
  
He thought perhaps the cook was hanging to dry pheasants dead and necks swinging out the railings—but Marco could say with certainty no fowl, dead or alive, could smell as foul as this scent. No, this scent festered in one’s nose, was slimy and smelt old, ancient, with a hint of spice and the sweetness of death. It smelled dead and it smelled of blood.  
  
He smelled blood.  
  
It was a fretful challenge to steady himself, to dig his claws into the soil only, and let them clench at the dirt with no move to spring forward and discover the sour scent of bleeding on the Prince.  
  
“Jean, are you injured?” The way he spoke it, with his mouth open at the snout and eyes pricing, made his hackles rise as if a threat was near, abounding and mocking all about the garden though the sky was blue and unblemished, the flowers forever rich even in the wake of autumn, and the Prince looking contented enough.  
  
“Hah?” Jean breathed, eyes flicking straight to the bush that had been the main sight his eyes beheld this past year.  
  
“Are you bleeding?” Marco breathed out; his hind legs that could spring faster than any mule deer already low, touching his ankles as he righted himself to leap. He would carry Jean to the castle doors, scratch at the door like a beggar dog till they let him and Jean through. Marco would brave the slings of arrows and wrongful blame the humans would see fit to brandish him upon spying a wolf carrying the injured Prince, but if that was what it would take to see Jean’s life spared—  
  
“Bleeding? Me?! Where? Where does it show?!” Jean asked, now in a fretful mood as he plucked at his robes and unwound his shawl, picking at his scarf to see a scabbed wound that was not there.  
  
“I...I think it is at your trousers?” Marco ventured a guess, his eyes searching at the breeches of the Prince and yet he saw no dreaded spot. Perhaps the Prince had cut one of his toes and the leather boot had begun to pool with his blood! Marco glared at the offending footwear, imagining the best way to tear it off.  
  
However, Jean had stilled, his face pale as mortification settled in.  
  
“My trousers.” He asked, expecting no answer, even though Marco made a definite shake of the hydrangea bush.  
  
Swallowing softly, Jean tried to smile but it only made the skin about his mouth tight, so he settled for frowning instead.  
  
“My Prince, if you are not well please let me call for help, I shall be swifter than any creature you have seen, only wait a moment and I—” Marco began, already wiggling out the back of the heavy foliage to risk pitchforks and stones thrown at him, only Jean, stoic and trembling in his throat, stopped him.  
  
“Are you not a servant of this household? You should know my circumstances.” Jean spoke calmly, eyes dropping as if pretending he was bored, and it made Marco settle himself back down, his tail still thumping on the upturned earth.  
  
If Marco had known any better, he would have realized that being a wolf outside the kingdom of humans leant little to no insight into the inner politics and workings of the family. At present, though, all Marco could do was frown and worry himself near to whining.  
  
“I am a gardener unattached on the happenings inside the castle and therefore know not what you speak. Are you ill? Have you a blood ailment?” At this, Jean laughs in stale amusement. His circumstances might as well be an ailment the way he sometimes catches himself lamenting about it. Though, he really did appreciate his servants who cleaned his bed sheets for not being gossips. If Jean’s friend had not heard a word, perhaps all was well to break the news, albeit, gently.  
  
“I blood let, of no afforded control of my own.” Jean spoke quietly; using practiced words in riddles that Marco was sure he had spoken to others before who had needed clarification on why Jean seemed to ooze the scent of dead carrion.  
  
Taking another hesitant whiff and smelling no added residue of witchcraft that ceremonial bloodletting would stench of, he held back a whine in the back of his throat at his frustration and need to help. “I know that now, for I can smell it.”  
  
Marco winced as he watched the Prince’s careful face pale again with mortification as he less than discreetly began to sniff himself, wrapping the discarded shawl back round his thin frame that Marco could not tease out the scent of pain from. Jean was, or would be, in pain very soon from his wounds.  
  
“I’m, I’m very sorry, I had no idea that I smelled.” He bit out, eyes narrowed in a nauseous wave of embarrassment that pricked his eyes and made them water. Sitting up to leave, Marco sat up quickly, knocking the top of his head on a corded branch and whimpering for his troubles.  
  
Jean couldn’t leave, not yet.  
  
Quickly regain the use of his tongue that until now been his mortal enemy at wining Jean’s favor on this morning, Marco barked out his quick apologies. “I meant no offense, I simply have an uncannily sharp nose and a mouth that knows not when it should be kept shut!” He panted, almost needling his black nose through the bushes buttery blue petals. If he had to chastise himself like a foolish pup to put Jean at ease, so be it!  
  
“What you must know is that I was baptized Joan Kirschtein, not the name I have now.” Jean paused to clench his lips tight in a thin line, his eyes never straying from their spot on the bush, as if searching for the pair of eyes that lurked within. Jean appeared to not be bothered immensely with this bit of history, and so Marco kept quiet.  
  
“As a result, I bleed every month.” He shrugged, uncurling his fingers from his shawl; the short nails dragging over the spun wool as the stilted patterns of the linen smattered.  
  
Marco, upon given sufficient time to absorb such news of his beloved, nodded and apologized most graciously, as a man of his station was expected to while conversing with a man of Jean’s.  
  
Of course, Marco being a wolf, he could not plug up his nose, and as a result he still smelled the stench. It was not nice and it was not clean, it smelled of the first blossoms of pain and it made the overgrown wolf wish that he could but nuzzle Jean’s stomach, if only a little.  
  
However, if what happened to Jean is the same as when some of the females in his kin blood let after an unsuccessful heat, then he was sure Jean was in no mood to be touched. It was tricky to discern and understand humans from his perspective, but it did not stop Marco from attempting to be the best comforter he could at the moment.  
  
“Are you in much pain?” Marco questioned, voice soft as he tried to stamp down and swallow the desire to hold his human, to have him cuddled against the warmth that his fur could bring.  
  
“A little, but this has happened so many times. I must confess that I am used to it, and the worst has not yet come anyway.” Jean sighed, leaning on his palms, trying to situate himself to get as much sun as he could on his fair skin. He reminded Marco of a rose, sunning himself like that, and Marco wished he would grow and heal faster, for his own peace of mind. Goodness, humans were such fragile things! So many bones that broke and tangled, so little fur to keep them warm, eyes sunken in and not much help in the dark, and blunt teeth not worth the rows inside the mouth! Marco would have to be a most attentive mate, though he was beginning to accept the fact that this Prince was capable and accomplished when compared to his hairless and lanky bipedal species.  
  
Nosing at his paw, as was his custom, Marco watched the other sun himself till the sun was chased away by the clouds and Jean’s book, which went untouched, began to flip pages from the wind. They parted again as friends and Marco was able to regain a smile upon Jean’s face he trotted away from the garden, to return back tomorrow as faithfully as ever.  
...  
  
Bright and early the next day, Jean found himself alone at the marble bench with no voice in the brush to make his heart rise in his throat. However, a gift was there all the same.  
  
A pail of sloshed hot water steamed atop the bench, dripping messily as the ladle plopped inside bobbed. Ash clumped and stuck to the bottom, as if someone had placed the pail near a cooking fire to heat, and Jean was most fortunate that this present had not yet cooled. Leaning into the mist that rose from the pail like incense, Jean inhaled the vapors and smelled sticky chamomile and dusty lavender. He watched the flowers sink and swirl softly in their makeshift tea and smirking to himself, downed a spoonful. His gardener was quite impressive, knowing a brew to ease the pain in Jean’s back and at the pit of his stomach. That was not the only gift that his friend had given him, however.  
  
A quilt that Jean recognized as one of his brother’s was haphazardly folded in on itself. As Jean opened it, buds of lavender and crushed rose hips scattered from the patches, the cloth warm and warn as if someone had let it sit by the fire to toast. Wrapping it round himself, Jean inhaled. He would have smelted the earthy muddied scent of a wolf if he had only paid attention to his nose better, but such was the weakness of the human senses.  
  
If only Jean had witnessed his mysterious friend drop off his carefully crafted gifts—he would have surely laughed at the hilarity of it all. For after their previous conversation Marco had bothered just about every wolf in his clan as to herbal remedies for stomach cramps and bleeding, had stolen a blanket from a wash woman’s tub and rolled on it all morning to keep it warm, all for the comfort of one human who was now slurping watered down tea and wrapping a quilt tighter about him if only to have the sweetness of the gesture ever more present.  
  
Marco should have liked to see Jean laugh, too, at the image of a giant wolf trotting into a German garden, herbs stuffed into his mouth, mindful not to bruise a single leaf nor bud.  
  
Yet Jean did not see and thus he did not laugh—but sitting down on cold marble and warming himself by a stolen steaming pail and warmed blanket, Jean did find himself blushing and falling in love.  
  
The gift giving had been no small occurrence for the two, for instead it built and it grew and it clamored within the next days and weeks to present itself as a glorified betrothal to each. Birthday gifts when each knew not the other’s date of birth, gifts of the minds fancy and purpose, and presents that were gifted out of a need to give to show just how attentive the other was to this ritual of praise. They were small things, of course, but it was in their meanings that the greatness lain.  
  
Jean had become accustomed to hunting more, though never alone, which brought Marco great peace of mind. As both of them should have seen, the preferred catch was rabbit and nothing else, for Jean would not stay out so late as to track deer nor did he like the awful sounds they made when hit. Nevertheless, Jean was extremely clever in catching the long eared creatures with stick, twine, arrow, or his bare hands if need be. It was quite a skillful man that Marco had fallen in love with, and he knew it now more than ever when he next went to visit and smelled rather than spied the marble bench piled with two dead hares.  
  
Their legs were limp as they dangled, the Prince pacing round the soft stone seat in listlessness rather than admiration and Marco could smell the worry on him like cold water running down his back.  
  
“Are they for me?” Marco asked softly, watching Jean whirl with all his coats and scarves to gaze at the bush. Stepping forward, but thinking better of it, Jean sighed with a soft smile. Marco would flush as pink as a lily if he was able to.  
  
“I had hoped to gift my friend something grander, but yes, these are yours.” He poked at the broken leg of one of them, almost petting the fur before he stopped himself from getting too distracted.  
  
Marco felt his eyes grow with surprise that was only tamed by the admiration he was feeling for the other. Such a gift, it was perfect for a wolf, the human before him who would feed him with this present, would keep his belly full and his heart content, must not have realized the deeper meaning that such kindness could bestow. A wolf never shies from honoring a provider, and as such Jean would be nobler than his title allowed.  
  
“There isn’t that much meat on their bones, but you can still make use of the soft fur. It would make excellent gloves. For your family.” Jean hummed, looking proud of his catch but there was still that prick of worry that Marco could smell if he concentrated hard enough, closed his eyes and breathed. He didn’t like it on the other at all.  
  
Still retaining his bashfulness that one such as he should never have possessed in the first place, Marco lowered his eyes. “I am not wed, I have no children, no family of that nature.” For while he had cousins enough and littermates abound, he could not fulfill Jean’s wish for the gift in such a way.  
  
“Oh?...Oh.” Jean paused in his step, biting at his thumb as he clutched his robes belt with the other. Marco snorted with a huff, careful amusement in his eyes as he sat up, too excitable now to keep still in such a stuffy fashion with paws all splayed across the dirt.  
  
“I shall like to be greedy with this gift, though, it being so special.” Marco promised, his mouth already watering at the thought of such a gracious meal, and caught by one so close to his heart. Marco too, was pleased at how Jean’s usually pale face so much the color of a fish’s belly, began to redden. He was even more pleased that the Prince didn’t seem to mind how honest his features belayed his delight.  
  
“Honestly, it is only but two rabbits, hardly enough to feed oneself.” Jean mumbled, side eyeing the bush like its branches and leaves were teasing him just by their movement in the wind.  
  
“It takes skill to catch a rabbit, your highness.” Marco assured the other. Jean only blushed harder, though he did make a nod of understanding—of what he understood, the kindness of the other or the value of his own worth, no one could be sure of.  
  
“Can your brothers catch hares?” Marco asked, and Jean smiled cockily with triumph. “No they cannot. They tend to avoid trying altogether.” He remarked.  
  
“Then you are very much accomplished, my Prince, more so than any of your elders.” Marco hummed, watching Jean unravel himself further into sputtering and nods of acceptance at such gracious words. Marco himself was not doing any better, heart still pounding at the idea of Jean catching a rabbit, form smooth and agile in its entirety.  
  
After more compliments were paid and Jean confessed that he was afraid his face might burn so bright that it would put the sun above to shame, they cut this meeting short. Marco did not mind, so delighted was he to bring back his presents to his den and savor the excellence of them. It was no wonder too, that all those that saw him bring back two hares with not a whisper that he caught them himself, that erupted a slew of wolfish kin to come to the conclusion that their King was being courted, and most happily courted indeed!  
  
It was about time too, Marco agreed with them silently as he drifted off to sleep in his den with a warm belly and an insistent mind to dream the remainder of the day away like other lazy royals are afforded to do. Any past inkling of doubt at his own ability or willingness had been chased away like a rabbit from a thicket; he would find a way to be with his Prince at any cost.


	4. Meet the Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The middle of the forest is the darkest of the woods and the darkest of the woods is the middle of the copse and the middle of the copse is the middle of the forest and the middle of the forest is the darkest of the woods.

It amazed Jean how much he had started to spend his time in the garden. Originally it had been out of necessity to distance himself from the tall walls that reverberated every cackle, guffaw, and shout that his brothers made as they amused themselves in the throne rooms and kitchens where they pestered the cooks and servants by running the hound dogs through and through all day long.  
  
But now, there was a new necessity and want that had seized him like a child that had no thoughts except for the things that they favored. The garden, the servant with the kind voice, and Jean’s growing love, had become the foundation for his visits and Jean was at a constant pull to appease his heart by filling it up with each of those sights, sounds, and feelings.  
  
He had never had a friend like this before, had never had a friend who listened when he talked, who was not all about formalities and haughtiness, who Jean could converse with and know that the both of them would listen to what was equally being said. It was amazing.  
  
Marco, for that was the name the man in the flowers had given to Jean, had also been a great help to his education and curiosity. He had told the prince that there is much more to know and learn about the wolves, about the forest beyond and all who inhabit it and are lured inside it due to its beauty and mysticism. Jean would never outright admit to his curiosity, but he often lay awake at night in his room, watching the fire in the hearth burn low and hiss, and dream of the forest. He could see the edgings of it from his window, but it was a view that starved him and made him hunger for more—to hold the acorns the size of one’s fist that Marco bragged about deep inside the forest’s heart. To see the rivers that flowed by morning and drained by the night’s moon. Marco had told him there was more than sport for the hunt inside that forest, and Jean desired to learn his fill.  
  
Today though, in this late afternoon, he had something important to ask of the other, something that could not be put off. As such, he greatly hoped his friend would appear. Walking over cobblestones and shedding his cloak to pile it in his arms, he paced towards the place that had become his haven.  
  
“Marco?” He whispered, sitting down upon the bench and looking wildly around, trying to calm his beating heart.  
  
“Prince Jean! I am here.” The voice calmed Jean extremely, allowing the prince to settle in his seat a little more comfortably. For no matter how nervous he was, he would have been very distraught if he had not asked this of Marco now, before another perhaps got to him first.  
  
Exhaling in relief, Jean continued with little pause, lest his tongue trip and tie him down with bashfulness. “Marco, there is...ah. There is something I wanted to ask of you—ask you!” Jean stumbled, only quieted by the serenity that the garden exuded in the middle of darkness when only the leaves grew orange and yellow like flames. Jean bit his lower lip softly.  
  
“Yes, my friend?” Marco whispered, though the King was in a state of recklessness, hearing the other’s blood pulse in his body like a swarm of bees humming and whirling by. It would stress anyone to pieces! However, Marco restrained himself by his good graces long enough to be asked a question that charmed him greatly.  
  
Fidgeting in his step, Jean began to let his tongue run its course and his face burn because of it. “There is…there is a ball coming up, in three days’ time, and I am dreading it more than anything. Can I learn where you go in the nights so that I may spend my time with you?” Jean shook with hope, his mind relaying just how dreadfully he hated dances, especially the ones that his father had a hand in planning. Oh there would be merriment alright! Consisting of the same boring aristocratic people who muddled Jean’s name and would not stop spilling their drinks on his mother’s carpets and who were just a great big herd of unpleasantness! Jean could only hope that Marco would be able to somehow rescue him from such an evening.  
  
Heart about ready to burst forth and strike Marco dead, the wolf could not help but rush his words. “I…no Jean, you can’t.”  
  
Jean did not stumble at his pace but merely stopped it, sitting himself down with enough resolve to not make a scene like he wished to. Choosing to nod instead, he reminded himself that he knew that of course that would be the answer—but such preparedness for defeat does not make the pain lessen.  
  
With little foresight, again Marco spoke in the same rushed manner as before, nearly knocking his large snout into a branch so that it shook most vigorously.  
  
“But I will be there! At the ball!” Stunning himself with his own words he sat back winded, feeling a sickness at his gut that pulled with each second past that he realized what he had said.  
  
Jean balked, suspicious of getting too excited at such an outcome. “What? Are you part of the kitchen staff too?” He asked, staring at the bush with a hardened gaze causing Marco to sweat out through his paws.  
  
“No, no. I am not employed by the kitchens, but…I will find a way to be there.” He assured the other, nodding to himself with his own conviction. A chance like this, to see Jean more than in the confines of a shrubbery that he was outgrowing faster as the days progressed; it was a wonderful notion indeed! One at perfect timing too, as not only was he getting bigger due to all the rabbits he had been lovingly fed by the other, but the damned bush he was always hiding in had begun to thin thanks to the autumn season.  
  
At the smile the other gave him, Marco was sure that though his mouth had run away with him carelessly, he would never take back the promise he made to the other to be at the ball. For Jean’s eyes positively lit up at the prospect of sharing the evening with the other, even though he knew not Marco’s circumstance.  
  
As Marco fled to the forest after lavish promises of promptness and the invitation of a dance, he was giddy and sick with the idea that he would have to attend such a gathering of squawking humans when he himself still had a glossy black hide and an impressive row of sharpened teeth.  
  
He had not the slightest idea as to how he would barge into the hall walking on two legs instead of four and not alarm the guards with swords ready at their flanks to destroy any inkling of a disturbance on such a supposedly joyous night. How he would attend such a gathering and not die, was beyond him.  
  
Going back to the quietness of his kin did not help to relax his thoughts either, as the pattern of his duties only reminded him once more that he was King and had responsibilities to attend to. Should he die, all for the sake of attending to his love’s wishes, well, chaos and heartbreak would ensue around the clan.  
  
Still, he would behave like nothing was wrong. He would take trips to the streams to make sure the fattened clouds of fall had refreshed the rivers, would spy on the deer and see which of the herd was sickly enough to cull or which were to be left alone for a later date. He taught the pups how to howl while their mothers were catching some well needed rest and chatted with the crows and hawks to make a treaty based for watchfulness and mice as payment for the bird’s troubles. He did all this and it only took a day, and so he sat and mulled away in his den like a sallow thing, mind much too cluttered to pick apart a good plan that was safe and simple.  
  
This was how the second day passed as well, with Marco gloomier than ever. He had tried to see Jean in the garden, to relay his excuses and apologies at the fact that he simply could not attend—but the Prince had not been there.  
  
Instead, on the last day Marco saw him along the awnings of the main hall, taking in the splendor of the boughs of pine and twisted rows of wheat that decorated the entrance, a smile on his face that Marco could not for the life of him want to disappear by any means.  
  
That was when, smelling the roast burn and char for the feast tonight, the cranking of the spit and the clatter of the goblets turned on their heads on tables as grand and decorated as ever—that Marco reached a most preposterously inane idea. Galloping fast and recklessly back into the forest, Marco had the intention of losing himself along the trails and boroughs, to belly under thistles and leap over aspen saplings. For the only way to gain this creature’s help was to be lost beyond hope—that was the way to find them, in the moment of chaos and panic.  
  
When one lived in an Enchanted Forest, one had to make the best of his resources—even if those resources were very well forbidden, maddening, poisonous, and just plain unwise. But Marco had no other choice, and he very well didn’t, for now he was hopelessly lost, the trees all looking the same in their spiraling height and bony clawed limbs. The wind howled and he lost all trace of scent back to his home and warm den, back to his family. He was glad that he knew Ymir, the second eldest of his littermates, would take care of the clan in his absence—an absence he hoped beyond hope was not permanent.  
  
The center of the forest was dark and if it were not for the fortunate circumstances in this instant of Marco being a wolf, the King of Wolves would have been blind in the muteness of warm wet shadows.  
  
This place was where he shouldn’t be and yet he should, for this was the home of the one witch of the Enchanted Forest—at least, he hoped.  
  
They were a witch fortunate enough to not take sides—they either helped you or hurt you. For Marco’s wish, it would rely solely on luck and luck alone. His status would not help him nor would any kind words he could say to the witch, it merely depended on what mood they were in.  
  
Marco hoped it was a generous one.  
  
He walked a little ways till his paws grew thick with mud, his neck craning every which way at the hint of a mere sound, a broken twig, an acorn dropping, a cackle in the wind. Every sound was a thorn pickling against his ears and a cold caress across his back.  
  
Marco was a wolf, and a big one at that, from a rare and noble species, but even he knew that he was not the most domineering and frightening creature in this forest. No, that title belonged to the witch.  
  
With fur standing on end and a desire for help burning in his lungs, Marco sat himself down in front of what appeared to be a badly kept yard. The remnants of a fence was folding over like a broken comb and the thick thorn bushes that should have boasted rose hips were dried up and dead. This was the place, Marco was sure of it, for his heart would not stop its clamor and his mouth had gone dry.  
  
Making a small pathetic whine in protest for him having come here, he raised his head softly to the sky, though there was no sky to see, for the gnarled trees grabbed at every inch of star and cloud. Making a soft and polite howling noise to announce himself, he waited—though not for long.  
  
Then he heard it, an echo in his ears that stung like a horse fly nipping at his flesh. It started as a whisper and carried over like a warm wind, but it was none too friendly. _“I I I I know you’re here here here…ing ing ing Wolf King.”_ Their voice was right inside his head, and yet no matter how many times he shook and rolled his neck and swatted at his temple the voice would not leave. It was terrifying and it was getting louder, ringing humming and slithering from the shadows to cut the echo in its vibrations entirely. It stopped, and then it started again, in a very clear voice, right astride Marco’s ears and the Wolf King, bent halfway to the ground, dared not move to see if there was such a face that could have made such a sound.  
  
Like rainclouds swarming the forest, a heavy mist dragged the yard away, dragged the makeshift box of black that Marco could see now was a cabin, away. Still, the wolf did not move, choosing to panic in his silence.  
  
 _“Te te te te tell me.”_ The wisps of echoes begin and stop again, as if this creature is pulling the words far away from their mouth with deliberation and then bringing them to a crescendo, squishing them between their thumb when the noise and hum of it all has gone on long enough.  
  
Speaking directly into the soul of Marco’s mind, the witch has ceased all other sound except for their slither of a voice, choked by the sound of what must be their tongue as they spit out the words like hard stones from teeth.  
  
“Why has the Wolf King come to call?”  
  
Marco opened his eyes, startling himself that he had shut them in fear—he had merely thought that the forest was just this dark and bottomless.  
  
A serious face with sharp eyes appeared from the sheet of black and blue that was the landscape to settle in front of him, a body following, a face retracting. Marco’s kin had no name for them, but the humans called them Zoë the Trickster. It was a fine name and suited them dearly, most humbly.  
  
“I...I have come to beg you for help.” Marco states, wincing at the sound of air moving past him with no body floating by. The witch’s voice snapped in his head like a driving whip that the humans so often used to press on their livestock. It made Marco stiffen.  
  
“Beg? But you have done nothing for me, yet you inquire about favors!” The voice is amused and Marco is not entirely sure that is a sign of goodness to his cause.  
  
Marco bowed graciously to the ground though he soon felt the dizziness of stress and fear shroud him. “I have nothing to offer you, I am afraid. I just—” A cackle interrupted him and held his words frozen in his mouth like ice, though they would never thaw.  
  
“The Wolf King himself has nothing to offer me? Oooh that’s not true, not true at all! HA!” At once Marco came to see the creature that he was talking to, came to see their face.  
  
They looked into Marco’s sweet brown eyes, their own gaze creeping along every inch of Marco’s face in its unyieldingness. Their lips pulled into a smile that betrayed their human disguise, stretching their face too widely, too sharply. Jean’s kin do not smile in such a way.  
  
"I…All I ask. Is for one dance.” Marco swallows thickly in his throat and exhales sharply as he watches the Trickster frown for the slightest of moments. “Well, that was unexpected, surely!” They say as they study the royal Monarch before them that has done more than bow this night for the other.  
  
“A dance you say? Like this?” And with a flick of their wrist Marco is on two paws, arm and arm with the Trickster, being spun round and round with such a clatter, Zoë's cackling ringing in his ears.  
  
Marco is flung to the ground quickly, tripping over his hind legs that ache from the abuse, but when he gets back up, he sits politely again. He had come here with a purpose and a purpose that would find its conclusion.  
  
“I wish to dance as a human. With Jean Kirschtein.”  
  
Zoë examined Marco on all sides, cocking their head like a bird in their own confusion, nearly upside-down like an owl. “The youngest prince. Aye, I know him. The prickly sort.” They snort and giggle, casting eyes to the forest and back down again. A smile, almost sweet, sewn on their lips.  
  
“There is a ball, this very evening” Marco says quietly, “and I'd like to go. I'd like to go and look…human.” The words hurt to push out of his long snout but he manages anyhow.  
  
There is a pause in the other’s gawking, the witch rolling their tree sap-colored eyes before they blinked back at Marco. “Your fur is exquisite. Let me have it.” A grin, a pair of eyes, and a hand extended towards him makes Marco bite sharp on his tongue to keep from snarling out of instinct.  
  
Tensing, but not denying, he stills. This witch before him was unpredictable, but he still had his kingly reputation to uphold, and if that meant being polite and accommodating, then so be it. It if meant being skinned of his precious cloak of fur...so be it.  
  
The trickster’s hand moves slowly over Marco’s hide, glossing over his mane and settling at the tuffs teasing from his head. Marco tenses in preparation, but he feels only a teeny prick from his temple. Opening his eyes with bewilderment, he sees the witch holding a single black speck of fur, hardly enough to thread a needle. “Thank you, your majesty, you’re just about the most willing plaything I've ever had!”  
  
The trickster laughs and Marco feels a lurch of despair at his gut, heartbroken with the idea that now he will be forced to leave these woods without being helped, or the Trickster will simply bound him to their yard forever, perhaps as a glorified guard dog.  
  
Marco may be a king in this forest, but he can still just as easily be bent to the will of this witch.  
  
To both their surprise, however, a guttural caw from a crow above breaks the forest’s silence better than any witch’s peals of laughter or wolf’s whimper.  
  
Zoë snapped their head up towards the trees, spotting the single crow perched on a steady branch.  
  
The crow caws again, looking straight at Zoë with copper pearl eyes, then turns towards Marco with a look of distain. The look, a strange glinting, was over in an instant, however, for favor of attention returned back to the witch.  
  
Still looking above at the bird that had begun to clean its left wing furiously, the witch spoke. “I will help you, Wolf King.” Zoë assured the other, their simmering voice turning serious. “Step into my cabin.”  
  
Then, like smoke, Zoë is gone, the forest sounding alive again, no longer choked into silence from fright. The cabin also appeared, as if emerging from the warm blackness, behind Marco. Not questioning the fact that Marco could have sworn the building was in front of him before, the wolf steps cautiously up the corroding steps held together by moss and swamp logs.  
  
The walls inside the hovel are cramped, the ceiling curving, sagging to the ground, and bottles stuffed with drying roots and bubbling with oils clutter the floor. Forced to step cautiously, Marco stares straight ahead so that he has no way of feeding his imagination on all the rotten things that look to be in the jars on the shelves.  
  
Zoë, looking calmer and more delighted than ever, was by the large iron cauldron, stirring it lazily as it roared and spat fumes.  
  
“Sit.” They say, and Marco obeys. A king has no authority in a witch’s den.  
  
Taking the hair that was plucked from Marco’s head, the witch dropped it with a little flick of their wrist, the sprig only a little bigger than an eyelash floating atop the frothing bubbles before it was swallowed whole by the concoction. In an instant the milky gray water seeped into a kind of burnt orange, like the rinds of pumpkins picked and left to rot in fields, no good to even the hogs for a treat.  
  
“You have until noon the next day.” Zoë says, staring at the mixture with pleased eyes. Marco nods curtly, though his tail has begun to sway eagerly in the cramped place, picking up a smattering of cobwebs.  
  
Zoë, sighing wistfully, chanced a look into the pot once more before nodding. Creeping slowly along their face, the inhuman smile returned.  
  
“The brew is ready. Levi would you do the honors?” Zoë asks and Marco turns, hearing a sound before him like the shifting of twigs and feathers. A small man with raven hair, arms crossed, began to walk toward the wolf that was twice his size and three times his weight.  
  
Backing away like a pup with its tail between its legs, Marco almost caught away if the man hadn’t yanked his tail and dragged him back, heaving him up in arms too strong to be natural.  
  
The last thing Marco realized, could comprehend in his moments before he was dumped into the boiling cauldron, was how the mixture smelled faintly of hydrangeas and wet fur.  
  
The Trickster’s laugh, vibrant and wild, shrieks in his ear as he goes under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you wanted to hear what Hanji's voice sounded like in this fic, my lovely co-author and editor (who's idea this story was) has done a small sound recording of it. Beware, it's hella spoops. http://havingafoodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/98214702715/playing-around-with-my-voice-to-make-the-voice


	5. The Dance of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco gets what he wished for, and then some.

Hanji watched the cauldron roll and slosh along the edge, splashing and wetting the fire—making it burn bigger and brighter as if the concoction was tar and not made from less...desirable, ingredients. Frowning and poking the withering body in the swill water with a birch stick, they sighed.  
  
Levi, curled lip, huffed his displeasure as he plugged his nose. He wished he was a bird again, then at least it would be more of a challenge to smell this putrid brew in its entirety.  
  
“You were taking too long.” He stated, his voice a thin monotone so much unlike the witch.  
  
Hanji’s worried brows crease and smooth over as they laughed, as if they were remembering a joke from long ago. Their chuckle was smoother and tamer when the two were in private together.  
  
“He was so patient. I couldn't help it.” They hum, petting the cauldrons thick sides, only whisking their hand away with a whoosh of breath at the heat of the metal. Levi merely sighed, as if such a move of carelessness from the other was expected in due time.  
  
“Why are you planning to help the Wolf King?” The crow with no feathers to his name now, asked, though not a speck of curiosity loomed in his voice. One would suspect that he had always just been fond of humoring the witch.  
  
Hanji made an exaggerated shrug, their fur trimmed cloak sagging on their broad shoulders. “Believe it or not, I do enjoy having a peaceful forest.” They said seriously, before a wry smile, just at the crook of their lips, appeared. The raven man cocked a thin eyebrow before he turned on his heel to stare outside the stained glass window. Twilight was already swarming thick and fast outside the forest; he could see it with his careful eyes. The ball would be opening to visitors, hacks and carriages flouncing up the gardens. They would have to hurry with this Wolf King.  
  
“Sounds Boring.”  
  
His witch smiled and shook their head softly about. It’s an inhuman gesture, but it’s still curiously beautiful. “Nothing is boring when I am around, my love.”  
...

Marco can feel his skin tingling, the bones shifting around in his body, but the pain is all muffled and far away in his mind, as if someone wrapped him up in that linen the humans were so fond of—cotton—and let him sleep. He felt like he was sleeping, only the bones and skin and muscles inside him awake—his mind was dreaming. There were bubbles escaping his mouth, but he is not drowning, he is not dying. Then, the cauldron tips over, and he spills out, wet and shivering and very much awake.  
  
“Oh, ohhhh! You’re so handsome!” The witch coos, clapping their hands together in the excitement of it.  
  
Trying to open his eyes and feeling something murky cling to his sight before a few good blinks, Marco tried to stand, surprised to see hands instead of paws in front of him.  
  
The skin on his hands is a dark brown, littered with spots, and his arms are the same way, so is his torso, his legs—everything, he’s covered with the tight feel of it, like leather. Stepping on his tiptoes, the only way to appear in wolfish fashion, his toes are many and wiggle about with pathetically unthreatening nails atop them. His gorgeous black-ticked coat has fallen out or has been singed off him, for all that remains is sparse coarse dark hair on his legs, arms, and chest. He touches the top of his head, there is only human hair there, wet and messy and curled. He would have screeched out his shock if it were not for a heavy quilt dumped on his shoulders.  
  
“Zoë, he’s going to trip over the salts.” Levi huffed, Marco could hear him to his left—his hearing still well, as well as ever even though he could not twitch and rotate his ears, as he was accustomed to. It was his legs that were the problem, toes splayed and no claws to wrench into the splintered wood, to ground him, to anchor him. And these elbows, arms that he could throw over his head if he wished—there was just too much mobility!  
  
“Well then, grab him!” Zoë instructed. “I'm not touching him, he’s filthy!” Levi scowled, Marco could see it—could, oh my, these eyes were different! So high up, and placed at the front of his face like a wolves, but he had to turn his head this way and that to gaze about his surroundings like a confused fool! Was he stripped of every subtlety?  
  
“He just had a bath!” Zoë screeched, and it made Marco wince, gritting his teeth that were so pathetically dull he whimpered. “Yeah, in your bullshit cauldron that you won’t let me clean!” Zoë whirled right back at the crow man with hands on their hips. “IT WOULD WASH ALL THE MAGIC OUT!” As if to accentuate this point, the witch, with all senses of bravery or foolishness, scraped their finger over the lid of the giant iron pot, the fingernail alone coming back gooey with grime from so many years of use.  
  
“See? MAGIC.” Zoë flicked a hideous brown rotted blob at the other, making him nearly squawk.  
  
Marco, holding tight to the quilt that was becoming soaked with every second, wiped the back of his running nose with his very human hand. “Excuse me, but, I’m still naked.” He managed to sneeze out, trying to curb his irritated scowl on his full smooth lips.  
  
“Oh, yes, Levi! Get him some clothes, please.” Zoë waved their left hand to shoo the other creature away while their right hand began to smooth Marco’s hair into a somewhat reasonable look. Wiping the Wolf King down with the quilt that was beginning to smell of tar and rosemary, Marco watched as his new skin shivered and grew goose bumps. He had never had those before. Poking at the little bumps while Levi snatched up a few layers of garments for the king, Zoë began to unlace the collars and buttons of the trousers and vest.  
  
After being dressed quite fashionably in a light chestnut vest with little straight-laced lines as designs on the silk, white shirt, black trousers, and finally a dark brown cravat that Levi had carefully chosen for him—Marco was completely presentable as a human. Each piece of clothing fit him remarkably well, and it didn’t take much pondering to realize the closet that looked to be vacant was not normal—like the many inhabitants of this room.  
  
Properly groomed and biting on his lips to keep his nerves distracted, Marco was about to hastily say his goodbyes and thanks when Zoë the Trickster caught him at the arm. “It’s a costume ball.” They say with a grin, pressing something light but no less ornate in his hands.  
  
Looking down at the carved mask in his possession, he couldn’t help but make a displeased face. However, no sooner than the gift was given with gusto, was Marco shoved out of the cabin, the door closed with a gust of air and a crackling laugh.  
  
Regaining his step on too long and too straight wobbly legs, Marco attempted to perfect the art that was standing. Looking about him with what seemed like a little less in control of his wits then before he approached the creature in the heart of the forest, the Wolf King was surprised to note that he was already at the outskirts of the forest. He could hear the creek near the north bridge where the farmers led their sheep to Marco’s river, he could hear friendly birds pecking at the leftover bread in the castle’s kitchen, but more importantly he could hear the music swimming through the darkness from the palace.  
  
His hands had begun to sweat with the realization that it was now or never.  
  
Squaring his broad shoulders and taking each step at a time lightly, he passed the garden that had become a sort of sanctuary for him in these past months, and walked along stone and earth towards the welcoming gate that led to the hall where the festivities would start.  
  
Torches abounded where he walked, and if he were not in the glamor and hide of a human, Marco would have feared such spitting flame was to ward him away. However, he was no mere animal of the forest to be easily frightened and kept at bay, and so onward he walked with feet pinched in leather boots and sides sweating like he had never experienced before.  
  
The gates were far from him still, theWwolf King not believing how much land a human home could swallow up, could advance and then secure with boulders and cedar fences and stripped earth affectionately called roads. Affectionately called civilized. He knew though, if he could build like these humans could, with hands and domesticated animals and tools made from what was mined in nature, he too would wish a grand a place to live, wall to wall with cozy boroughs and dens.  
  
As Marco neared the pathway where large carriages pulled by warm-blooded horses slowed to let out excited guests, he noticed the true lavishness that a ball could reap from the countryside. Ladies and gentlemen and noblepersons all in their best dress with no apparent theme except for the beautifully trimmed and decorated masks they wore in all shapes and of all things. Bounding past him he saw a horse snatching the hand of a cat, a mouse was screaming at two dogs and a buck, and there were at least five plumed feathered mask wearers that were taking sips of boiled mead outside in the harvest air.  
  
It was an odd thing, to be surrounded by so many noble animals, or, should he say, people dressed as animals—oh what they would do to know that he was among them, King of what they probably all feared.  
  
Amused but still terrified, he stood awkwardly and lopsided at the front of the gate.  
  
The wrought iron of the garden had been menacing enough, but this was absurd. Latches of rope were pulled taunt to open a drawbridge like mechanism, the front of its jaws swept clean of debris, the metal tips poised above draped in cut grape vines, each leaf a smattering of red and orange.  
  
Taking a deep breath that made his new smaller nose twitch so that he had to scratch it, he strode towards the front gate, trying to snatch an air of aristocracy about him. Passing by the guards that stood, some tall and short, he noticed their tunics were the same color as red flame, each woman holding a pike in her hand to block and prod back any unwanted guest. It was a frightful scene and it almost made Marco turn back, till he heard a maddening excited barking in his ears.  
  
Tied to the stern looking walls of the entrance were three sets of dogs, each connected to a strap of leather that Marco assumed would be released on some poor unsuspecting soul who caused trouble. They at first had sat patient, nosing at each other’s muzzles and talking of the kind of bones they would be given after the feast, perhaps even some bread soaked in gravy.  
  
However, as soon as Marco came close enough for them to smell the wolf on him, they snapped to attention and opened their mouths wide with surprised smiles. Each bowing and wagging their stiff tails, Marco grew red with embarrassment as they began to chant, for only his ears to understand, “Your Highness! Your Highness!”  
  
Standing stock still as the dogs began to bark with conviction to show just how humbled they were to have one of the Noble family at their ball, Marco noticed the two guards staring at him in a peculiar way, the short one twisting her hand around her pike.  
  
Hastily reaching a finger to his lips, Marco shushed the dogs, eyes wide and fearful. Understanding immediately, for these were not unintelligent hounds without graces and understanding, they sat back on their feet and curbed their delight, tongues lolling out happily as if greeting a friend. The two guards didn’t move from their posts, humming only at the strangeness of it. Perhaps the dogs had gotten excited from all the people passing through, yes that must have been it.  
  
Finding the crisis averted, Marco passed by the dogs with a bow of his own as a kindness he truly felt for the dogs duty at protecting the Prince and his family. “Oh, but wait!” One hound with a lovely brown coat and ears perked up high nosed at Marco’s passing hand, gesturing to the mask he still had clutched in it.  
  
“Ah, right. Thank you.” Marco nodded to the dog who looked pleased as ever that he had helped his majesty in his time of need—he would surely relay such a story a thousand times to the rest of the dogs before the night was through.  
  
Slipping the mask on and tying the ribbon with slight clumsiness, for he had still not gotten used to these long spindly things people called fingers, he found himself soon traveling up the stone steps to the main room that smelled of burned fatty tallow and throngs of sweating, drinking, and eating humans.  
  
The word to describe it would be awkward, for Marco had never seen so many humans, of all sizes and of all skins and manner of dressing, as he had now—and he had to swallow his instincts to run with his tail between his legs in that very moment where a few of them stared at him before making a slight bow that he was bound to return.  
  
Uncomfortable as it might have been, he moved slightly further into the crowd, each new face that he himself saw staring back at him for a little longer than was socially acceptable out of common courtesy—even Marco knew that.  
  
Fearing that perhaps something was misplaced or wrong, his bushy tail sticking out of his trousers or his fangs falling out past his lips, he quickly flicked his gaze to an elegant mirror all draped in silver tapestry at its frame, and realized with a quick sense of modesty, that he was particularly handsome indeed. For a human.  
  
Though handsome as a person he was, he was still a wolf in disguise, and so his senses were assaulted constantly by the smell of bubbling pork fat on a spit, of the sickly stench of too ripe fruit, of perfume and musk clouds suffocating his throat each way he turned. Everything was too loud, too bold, and too foreign.  
  
Wolves traditionally talked with yips and body language, with the flick and shut of their eyes and the turn of their ear—but this, everyone seemed to only speak with their mouths and hands, caressing shoulders and reclining heads back to laugh. It was loud and it was stifling.  
  
Wandering around the great hall he began to grow stiff in the legs with apprehension, for already he had been here for a solid thirteen minutes and had no luck finding his Prince. His heartbeat he could not discern, nor his scent—for everything smelled of the fermented grapes that everyone seemed to be swallowing down. Marco himself had had a goblet thrust in his hands and out of his good nature and politeness he took a gentle lap at the blood red liquid. He almost gagged on its heady sharpness.  
  
After throwing away the disgusting mixture of water and molded fruit, Marco tried to garner the patience and calmness to pick up Jean’s scent amongst the crowd of people swirling around all in their best dress. Already he was getting a headache, trying not to scowl at the entire discomfort of it all.  
  
Brushing past a few people in various animal masks—a toad, falcon, and something that looked like a horse with black stripes smiling at him in greeting—he paused in his step and almost tripped over the pinched toes of his boots. The Prince was there, standing beside a large vase of poppies and sunflowers, dressed elegantly in greens and browns that were akin to the colors of the Enchanted Forest in spring. Pressed softly against his usual grumpy or smirking face was a mask of a russet hare. He was frowning, eyes cast down and looking displeased at his small glass, and Marco was overjoyed to see him.  
  
Not wasting a moment’s time longer, Marco shuffled past an elderly group of people who were discussing the many fineries in the room. Sliding next to the Prince with little to no stealth, he heard his beloved make a sharp intake of breath, causing the wolf to smile like a besotted mate.  
  
“Marco?” Jean whispered, half tensely, his golden eyes behind the mask timid. Marco nodded softly, not able to hide the fact that his smile was growing into a grin with each passing second.  
  
Gawking, so very much unlike a Prince of his birthright, Jean stared open mouthed at the masked man settled beside him. He was tall, well built with a quiet strength that made Jean feel almost giddy at his luck. Though he would have fancied his friend if he was any other man, Jean could not hide the satisfaction to know that this, so far from what he could tell, was a marvelous man indeed.  
  
“You’re a wolf!” Jean hummed, surprised as he eyed the delicate mask that the other wore, with its high sharp ears and copper thread trim.  
  
Frowning with eyes darting to and fro in caution, Marco gasped. “How did you--”  
  
“It is not the mask I would have chosen for you, you are much too kind to be a wolf. I would have picked a deer.” Jean bit his lower lip in concentration, as if imagining his friend in a doe’s mask flecked at the cheeks and with high oval ears.  
  
Marco’s shoulders sank, relived and dismayed all the same. “Oh. The mask. Ah, well. I think you’ll find that wolves can be very gentle.” He said with a voice of knowing that Jean would have, should have picked up, if it wasn’t for his delight at finding someone suitable to pass this boring night with. Shrugging, he let Marco continue.  
  
“Deer really aren’t that great. They only taste well, I suppose. But they really are awful creatures, they have ticks and they are messy. They make this noise, too,” Marco paused before making an amusingly horrific face, tongue lolling out, accompanied by a honking gasp. Jean, forced to spit out the mead he had been drinking, could not cease his laughter.  
  
Not knowing hardly any human etiquette at all, Marco chuckled just as merrily as Jean began to wipe the tears of his hilarity from the corner of his eyes.  
  
He had not even noticed that a few of the Prince’s older relatives were frowning at the two, some red faced, others pail with the display of puddled honey ale on the floor. Jean merely swiped up an edge of the coarse woolen tablecloths and dabbed at the mess with his foot, forbidding Marco to do so much as lift a finger.  
  
The night only progressed more fondly after they softened their laughter and began to smile. Relaxing in each other’s company was not a great feat; they had done it before many times and always in perfect rhythm. Now, though, Jean was pleased that he had a face and a name to this man, well. Sort of.  
  
It was nice to look upon the man who was as tall as he was muscular, his freckles dotting his chin and hands looking soft to the touch. Jean could only thus describe his friend as beautiful, such an acknowledgement making his chest stir in ways he chose to ignore most dutifully during their time in the garden but now had seemed almost foolish to set aside.  
  
Marco himself was pleased beyond belief. His blood was calm in his veins, only excited by a smile or comment from the other. His ears had honed in on Jean and his eyes that now saw in brighter vibrant color had begun to drink him in.  
  
It had been a good hour of them chatting and snorting out their laughter that Marco began to realize that he had come to this ball, to this party, for a very specific purpose. So, with a clench of his sweaty hands and a hopeful smile, Marco turned to Jean with a question on his lips.  
  
“Would you care to dance?” He quickly blurted out in his restrained excitement, Jean’s own eyes flashing bright with such a proposition. Blushing and cheeks burning hot, Jean nodded sharply, gripping his glass hard enough to crack.  
  
After making both their hands free of drink but full of each other, Marco led them to the center of the floor, mindful of his lack of skill and Jean’s cold and very real hands.  
  
Heart pounding and heels pressed firmly to the polished stone of the hall floor, Marco smiled softly down at Jean as the other began to turn—and smack back against Marco’s shoulder.  
  
It was then that Marco realized he had no clue how to dance, let alone dance on two legs.  
  
Seeing more than sensing the panic in Marco, from his flinching fingers to his widening eyes, Jean snatched the other’s hand and settled it tight against his waist, only wincing slightly at the nervous grip the other made against Jean’s vest.  
  
Under the impression that Marco was a servant and thus couldn’t have possibly learned how to dance under such refining pressure, Jean whispered soothingly to the other man. “Take my hand and watch.”  
  
Doing as instructed, Marco began to make a soft sound of distress as he heard the musicians begin to pluck and motion their instruments to life, a stately waltz wafting out of the hollow wooden and metal pieces. The only real comfort to the Wolf King was that, at the touch of Jean’s hand, it felt like it had always been meant to be there, curled around his in tenderness.  
  
At the song’s birth, Jean began to move about slowly, Marco chancing sly glance at the other couples to see just when and how he should move his suddenly pointed feet and soft heel. In a matter of minutes he had learned quite well, Jean telling him as such with a smirk on his lips. Catching up to the prince only seemed to delight the younger monarch more, as he laughed when Marco spun him around gaily, the masked wolf only making a few slight trips that had Jean smiling with amusement. Marco couldn’t even mind the hilarity of his dancing, simply amazed to see the other laughing and having a wonderful time was enough to make his spirits soar and his lips part into a grin.  
  
As the last string snapped the song to its end, so the two on the ballroom floor were, unfortunately, released from the trance of the dance. All about them people clapped, except for the wolf and the hare—unwilling to let go of each other’s hands for anything.  
  
That was why, squeezing tight at Marco’s hand, Jean and the wolf rushed out of the party with mirth in their eyes, only growing more eager as they loped to the garden. Marco, out of breath and curiously following without question, marveled at the way their garden looked like at night, the orange glow from the far away torches giving it a hue of warmth though the night was sharp and cold.  
  
Marco turned away from the east of the garden where the roses were beginning to harden and die. Watching as the prince slid off his own mask, mindful of the ears, Marco began to fall in love all over again.  
  
Jean sighed, scratching at his sweaty face with his knuckles, glad to be rid of the stuffy costume. Turning with a smirk back to the other that quickly became a shy smile, Jean bit his lip and silently inquired about the other’s mask. Jean would not be so bold as to take it off the other without consent, but he did have a most gnawing want to have the man rid of the piece of leather.  
  
Marco smiled and lowered his head just enough so that the other could comfortably untie the soft ribbon, his thumb brushing over speckled cheekbones and warm flushed skin.  
  
Marco could only stare at the other, keeping those golden eyes on his own, and it made Jean roughly clear his throat and furrow his brows with his embarrassing distress. “Marco...” Jean breathed, Marco leaning in closer at the whispered hum the other made of his name. Bumping their noses together in a sweetened gesture that wolves often did, Marco was adventurous and heady in love enough to slowly brush their lips together in a kiss, Jean’s fingers clutching Marco’s coat collar tightly.  
  
After the kiss, soft lips parting and warm air dissipating to make room for the chilly autumn wind, Marco watched Jean’s eyes grow sad, sadder than they had been this entire evening and it made Marco’s heart lurch with anxiousness. Was the kiss not kindly and gentle? Did Marco overstep his bounds—had he dishonored this human prince? But Jean’s soft whisperer of worriment made Marco’s heart sink even further.  
  
“Why couldn’t you be a Prince?” He spoke, and it was pure pain to them both. It was reasonable doubt that had crept into their just blooming romance, for it was a thought that had to be at the forefront of each of their minds. Jean, for thinking he was in love with a servant—at match never approved upon, and Marco, despairing that he could never be wed to a human nor a human wed to him.  
  
Nuzzling his cheek, Marco murmured a hushed apology, spoken upon the prince’s lips in a chaste kiss. Wrapping Jean up in his arms that Marco inwardly damned he would never have again to hold Jean like this, Marco breathed him in, each breath holding its own apology, its own sense of graveness, its own hope for forgiveness for them both.  
  
Jean pulled back, wiping away what Marco could smell were tears, hot and salty. “Let’s, ah, let’s not think of such things now.” Jean hummed and Marco was eager to do as Jean suggested and put his mind elsewhere. Rubbing the other’s back softly, he felt the spike of Jean’s blood, could smell it. Peering down at the other he saw him grimace, hands pressed to his face, undoubtedly concerning himself with his flushed cheeks.  
  
“What is it, my love?” Marco asked, such a title coming easier to his lips now that the two had kissed, the word feeling right and settled. Jean blushed harder, rolling his bottom lip under his teeth as he bit and nibbled it in pondering.  
  
“Jean, are you quite well?” Marco asked, suddenly worried now as the other slid his hand down Marco’s arm to collect at his palm, squeezing his fingers tight. Nervously, so.  
  
“Marco, would you think me a brute if I asked if you would very much like to join me in my bed?” Jean squeaked, his eyes purposely flickering away to stare at a sagging hedge. Marco, left speechless and warm at the collar, sucked in a cooling breath.  
  
“I. Ah.” He laughed but there was nothing funny about this, his smile betraying itself with its tremble. Jean, who would not let himself be startled, squeezed Marco’s hand tighter. “I fear that was blunt of me but blunt it must be, I would very much like to be with you, in bed. In my bed, ah, specifically. With you.” Jean began to frown, losing courage fast.  
  
It was only when Marco grabbed at his waist, nuzzling against him for a kiss that had them both ache towards each other that made the answer in the air perfectly clear.


	6. The Tryst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gratuitous sex scene.

Sneaking past the kitchens where the servants were having their own festival full of stomping feet, ladles of ale, and sweet meats and cakes was not easy task—though Jean was lucky his beloved had a sharp nose and hearing and could maneuver them like thieves through the stair cases and short but still many halls and alcoves.  
  
Marco could smell Jean’s room the closer they got—smelling of the cinnamon bread the prince seemed to be fond of sneaking in his room, of candle smoke from long nights reading, and the scent of his woolen blankets. Well, those blankets would have to be kicked off the bed, for Marco did not quite feel like making love to the prince of his dreams while the stench of sheep clung to them. Marco smiled giddily, chancing a look at the other and delighting in the fact that, while nervous, he looked just as pleased at the situation the two had found themselves in.  
  
The room was small, but Marco supposed that was how Jean liked it, all cozy and warm, for the fireplace at the side would keep the chill from the castle at bay at least slightly. No worries, Marco himself was still warm though he had been robbed of his beautiful fur for the night and early morning.  
  
Still admiring the room, it was quite a surprise to feel tricky hands wrapped around his middle and pulling at the latch of his belt. Making an amused snort, Marco ran his fingers along Jean’s wrists lovingly, hearing the other huff with unfettered eagerness.  
  
Marco mercifully helped in unbuckling his belt, the hairs on his arm standing up at the feeling of shy lips brushing the back of his neck. The lower part of his stomach tightened pleasantly when Jean ran his hand over the smooth and hairless skin there. A bold move among wolves' standards, and Marco welcomed it without question. The kisses to his neck had become braver; the fingers that were once sliding the belt off were now feverishly working to undo the buttons on Marco's stifling vest.  
  
Not nearly sated by the touch, Marco reclined his neck back, allowing the other a view of skin that Jean soaked up with his eyes as well as lips. Though his touch was cold, Marco did not squirm, merely sighed out with a shudder as fingers that were not his, were more skilled in their approach, flicked open the last buttonhole. Fists greedily yanked at the vest and Marco had to bite the tip of his tongue to keep from chuckling with delight at what appeared to be the other’s patience failing him. As such, Marco began to massage at the wrists that had pulled his shirt strings open, the loops letting the shirt hang on shoulder only. Marco did not mind being the first one naked, modesty was a human trait found in some, he suspected, but not for the Wolf King.  
  
Jean's hands began to tremble, and Marco could smell the tension on him. Perhaps he changed his mind about what they were about to do? He brought one of Jean's wrists to his lips, kissing there gently, then turning to face his beloved. A rosy color covered his cheeks, traveling to his neck and ears, and his eyes were a dark shade of amber. He was looking at Marco with a carnal desire that Marco could feel in the pit of his stomach, but still he was shaking. "Don't look at me like that." Jean croaked.   
"I am simply…new. At this."  
  
Smiling brightly, thumb making the smallest of caresses against Jean's palm, Marco hummed. "I as well." Marco confessed, though it was nothing to be ashamed of, certainly. A wolf mates for life, unless certain measures unpleasant interrupt the couple, but Marco could not see that happening with them, in this moment. Even if this would be the last night known to the two in this manner, which Marco knew it very well was, Marco would take no other. He could not tell Jean as such, for such a devoted move might scare him, repel him, or perhaps question the very nature of such a rule. So Marco simply smiled and watched Jean furrow his brows in a scowl that had no intent to be malicious.  
  
"You? Hah. Good Lord, you don't have to lie to make me feel better." Jean huffed, but he did not pull away as Marco began to kiss each knuckle, as Marco watched Jean's own eyes for a flicker of ease.  
  
"I am not lying and I would not use my words to mock you, I mean my truth." Jean would have continued to doubt, to continue to think ill of his own lacking of contact in that moment, but something in the other’s voice relaxed and eased him, though the clenching want in his stomach seemed to not be affected by such taming words--it only burned greater.  
  
Jean slid his hands upward, the same speed that ended the life of many a hare, now moved to grab greedily at Marco's head, pulling him into a kiss that the Wolf King had never experienced; it was possessive, it was heat, and Marco heard himself whine as he surrendered himself to Jean's searing lips. Jean had Marco in his arms and had plans to never let him go, and Marco agreed, moving his own hands to cup at Jean's jaw, deepening the kiss. Jean's pointed nose was squished against Marco's flushed cheeks and it felt good, it felt dizzyingly good to be this close to his heart's desire.  
  
If Marco could spare his senses, could stop the sensation of coals at his heart and the curl of his toes on woolen rugs, he could have swallowed Jean’s scent with each kiss and each moment of clarity it brought to him. Jean was pure goodness against him, and Marco wished to keep it that way. Even the smallest of movements could provoke him now to nip and suck at the lip of the other, making the grip at his blackened hair tighten. The sensation was akin to nips and bites of fur, but this time it was sensual, Marco having never experienced anything like it in his life. He would have groaned out his pleasure was it not for the other moving to make good use of their mouths against one another. Alas, breath was an important stability for man and beast, and so they had to part. Foreheads flush together and noses pressed thanks to Marco bending down ever so slightly, Jean panted, a smile revealed to be permanent on his lips.  
  
"I should hope it would not be too forward," he began licking his lips, Marco chasing the movement like a hunter with prey, "...for me to ask that a certain gentleman join me on the bed." The prince’s tongue made one more quick dash across the lower lip before it delved back inside a mouth so sweet, Marco having to restrain himself from following after it. "Ahh, I know a certain gentleman that would be most pleased at such a request." Marco mouthed out his words against the other’s neck, his chin grazing the other’s clothed shoulder--Jean should be festering in those clothes, a mighty disservice it would be if he were not relieved of them.  
  
Smiling with teeth, Marco lightly brushed his thigh against the other, Jean making a noise akin to a growl and gasp, a noise Marco found he enjoyed very much.  
  
As if the Wolf King had offended the very last wisp of hesitation, he felt a grip as strong as any other grab at his hips and surge him forward and backward in what an onlooker would assume was a jolting waltz. However, instead of landing back in his beloved’s arms, the Wolf King found himself piled onto the bed, the blankets and rugs that were once pristinely placed upon them now ruined by one Prince’s aroused gaze. Marco blushed, feeling such heat on his cheeks the likes of which made him dizzy.  
  
Marco watched as the Prince toed off his boots, tossing them aside without a second thought, all the while unbuttoning his jacket and vest. Jean felt exposed without having removed a scrap of clothing, the eyes of the other unraveling him and making his cock throb in his pants, the arousal taking root firmly in his abdomen. The last of the buttons undone, Jean slid the offending cloth off of his shoulders, letting them fall easily to the floor. Marco was smiling so sweetly and it was enough for Jean to stride over and press their lips together again, addicted to the man's full lips and roaming hands. Jean allowed himself to moan, grabbing at the hem of Marco's shirt, revealing more warm brown skin, painted generously with freckles.  
  
"You will rip it, Prince Jean. And then where will we be?" Marco teased between open-mouthed kisses, Jean looking none too amused, tugging harder at the cream colored shirt. "I forbid this shirt to mar your perfect skin, such clothing is a menace on a body such as yours," he breathed, taking care to kiss and nip at Marco's jaw, causing the wolf King’s eyes to slip closed in a moment of concentrating pleasure.  
  
"Would you like me naked that much?" Marco hissed, feeling the other settle his weight atop one of his thighs, the Wolf King forced to sink deeper into the bed that accepted his weight from the soft mattress underneath.  
  
"Very." Jean hummed, greedily sucking on the other’s ear in a bold move that left even the Prince surprised, his jaw working to lay every kiss and bite that he could on the other’s skin.  
  
"Well, I must comply with a Prince’s wishes, I suppose." Marco grinned, the smile making Jean’s heart lurch with more things than lust, with a feeling that one was sure they could snatch at, for it lay in their heart and beat just like a pulse--only stronger.  
  
The Wolf King lifted his arms above his head, allowing Jean to finally tug the offending shirt off of his broad shoulders. He boasted an impressive human frame, he could tell, for Jean stopped all movement to gape at his chest, swallowing audibly and unknowingly dropping the shirt from his loosened grip. "Fuck." Jean breathed, and Marco blushed at the crude word spoken so reverently. He took Jean's hips in his hands, yanking him out of his stupor and craning his neck up for a kiss, catching the Prince's bottom lip between his teeth.  
  
“Though I know how much my body has already pleased you, perhaps I may see my handsome Prince in all his glory?” Marco hummed, no shyness about his kisses now. Palms fitted curved, one on Jean's thigh the other at the small of his back, squeezed with affection as Jean nodded back happily, reclining softly and slowly enough to make Marco pine for his warmth and touch again.  
  
Jean’s shirt was removed with little care for the poor beautiful stitching at the collar, nor with any gentleness as Jean’s hands were as flighty as a rabbit.  
  
With skin bared, Jean would not turn his body away, his fingers deftly stroking the arms of the other as Marco nuzzled the collarbone of the Prince. Jean’s skin was firm and sleek, like a smoothed pebble collected in one’s hand. Leaving open mouthed kisses at his chest, grazing and remembering, he felt each arch and curve of the other’s spine, each bend and press of the back that seemed to have forsaken a will of its own in favor of Marco's loving touch.  
  
He slid his hands down lower, to Jean's backside, manhandling the slimmer man to fully sit on his lap, Jean groaning his pleasure and rocked his hips into Marco's crotch. A sharp gasp escaped him; he had not realized how much he was aching to be touched, his cock incredibly hard now and straining to get out of his trousers. He bit his lip when Jean rolled down into him again, Jean grinning and letting out a breathless laugh. Marco raised an eyebrow, bucking his hips upward to meet Jean this time, and his lover's head arched back, sighing and closing his eyes, allowing for the King to bite and suck at Jean's exposed neck and collarbone.  
  
The Prince’s neck has soon, it seemed, become a great favorite of the King, his teeth short of mauling at the other in his enthusiasm. Occasionally Jean would giggle, and Marco would roll his hips up to slide against the other’s breeches, settling Jean to make like gasps and panting breaths.  
  
However, such touches were not enough, as soon Jean was growling and wiggling in the other’s embrace. Marco could do nothing short of get a hand wedged between them, fiddling with the drawstrings of their breeches till the folds of cloth drew free and release, if for a moment, was upon the two men.  
  
Shy no longer, Jean pushed his own trousers down to reveal them clinging to the inside of his thighs from a wetness that was not only visible but that Marco could smell. It was like musk, heady and sweetened, and the wolf King prayed thankfully that he had no claws to burry into the mattress to contain his want.  
  
However, the king had never met one like Jean. A prince who would be shy and prickly in one instant and who would then be rifling in his many small cabinets beside his bed for what Marco assumed was oil and a goat skinned sock.  
  
"I ah, it's not that I do not trust you," Jean began, leaning against his knees still panting, but Marco would not hear of any frightfulness in either of their throats. "I understand," and he did, somewhat, but what really mattered was that Jean was happy and content. Marco would to anything to achieve that.  
  
His fingers curled against Jean’s thighs as Jean fiddled with the skinned sleeve, opening the bottle with a cork in his teeth, busy at his task while Marco, sitting cross-legged on the bed stroked the inside of the prince’s thighs. Shivering and dropping some of the amber liquid onto the pleated pattern of a blanket, Jean whined. "Marco," He breathed in chastisement, but Jean’s lips making note of Marco’s name was enough to constrict the other’s lungs with happiness.  
  
"Jean." Marco hummed, circling his thumbs ever upward to brush against Jean's most intimate spots, where flesh was the softest and most vulnerable. Jean's cock was flushed and dripping wet at the touch, the smell of his arousal was flooding Marco's senses and intoxicating him; his eyelids fluttering as he watched Jean tremble with need. "My Prince" Marco breathed, his thumbs grazing at the skin around Jean's cock. Jean whined. "My love," Marco moaned again, gripping at Jean's smooth thighs. "May I touch you?" And Jean nodded, his head was swimming and it was painful not to have Marco's hands on him, his cock swelled and throbbing for release.  
  
Unbeknownst to him, or simply ignored, Jean leaned into the touch as two fingers began their decent in stroking him softly, not even a sound made from the touch, so delicate was the other, so mindful. “Marco,” Jean gripped tight at a corner of the blankets, the bed easing and creaking, settling with the weight of two when previously Jean had been alone, had been alone in more ways than one. “Marco,” Jean tried again, this time, pressing his forehead against the other, eyes trying to stay shut and not sink too far and too low into the feeling he was experiencing, into the feeling he was being teased into.  
  
“What is it my love?” Marco questioned, one of his fingers now at the other’s entrance, using Jean’s own wetness to soften the intrusion of entry, Jean bucking forward now with a gentle moan on the cusp of his lips. “I would, oh...” He paused, forgetting for a moment what it was he wished for. His knees aching, the Prince eased forward, chasing the feeling of fleeting fingers.  
  
Marco, fearing he had been much too eager, began to kiss the other’s cheeks softly. Jean, however, would not have such ministrations cease, and as such, after gaining enough control in his once slackened limbs, he crawled so close to Marco that the wolf had nowhere else to go but down, his head meeting a lumpy pillow, letting the wafting scent of his beloved fill his nose.  
  
If Marco strained his ears he could hear the guard dogs howl at visitors for the ball, could train in on the sound of whispering violins and the sound of horseshoe on cobblestone roads—but all that was drained out, Marco did not try to hear, for instead the breath of the prince, the rushing of his blood, the dripping of his arousal, was enough to make Marco forget the outside world, to forget anything that did not lie in this room, in this very bed.  
  
As if sensing his concentrated lust and fancy, Jean crawled up towards the other, giving one swift and final yank to the half opened breeches that had stood in his way for far too long. Marco chuckled, his head sifting against the pillow with the force of the tug—it would have been endearing if Marco did not share the other’s sentiments so greatly.  
  
There was a temporary relief when Marco's cock was freed from the confines of his trousers, but it did not last for long, he was hard and aching and his toes curled at the very feeling of Jean's breath on him. Jean's face was so close to him, Marco felt his face grow hot with embarrassment, the other's gaze unblinking and clouded over. "Do I displease you?" Marco asked quietly, unsure of what humans considered acceptable for their pleasure. Jean looked up at him, and Marco's cock twitched at the look of absolute lust he was being given. Jean's hands traveled to Marco's hips, leaving goose bumps in their wake. "Let me show you how pleased I am." He rasped, bending slightly before opening his mouth and wrapping his soft pink lips around the head of Marco's erection. It was unexpected and completely foreign to Marco, and he found himself melting into the wet heat of Jean's mouth and tongue, moaning embarrassingly loud.  
  
If he could howl, he would. As it was, his teeth were clamped shut, grinding against each other dully. With each suck, Jean was determined to make Marco bend to his will and his alone. If Marco had realized what wonders would be invoked with a soft mouth around his girth, fingers digging into his thighs and nose nuzzling the curls of hair that trailed down south, he would not had been so shy. His face was still red, to be sure, and the strange breed of nervousness that he had never felt before was still minutely lodged in the back of his throat, but he could feel such unease and lack of assurance fading with each light tease of teeth against the head of his cock.  
  
He watched with lidded eyes as the prince, with furrowed brows in concentration positively panted against his length, squeezing his fingers tight around Marco’s cock, making him jolt and jump with each sensation that burned under his skin. Jean had outdone himself, for that the Wolf King was sure—each suck and trailing tip of tongue could attest to that.  
  
That was why Marco was not so fearful when he felt the tugging sensation in his gut pull and yank harshly. He could feel his toes curling and could smell something in the air about them, something hesitant to happen, like a bird just about to take flight at the beginnings of a storm above. He felt it flutter and then harden till he was arching with Jean, in time with his strokes. It was when he felt the head, dripping precum on the tongue of his beloved, hit the back of the prince’s throat that Marco realized almost too late what such a sensation was. Tears pricking his eyes, he shouted out a yelp and sob, taunting his thighs upward to chase the sensation before it ran away with him.  
  
"Jean!" He panted, his body tensing, "Jean, I—ah!" He gripped at the sheets but just before he could feel whatever was coming snap and push him over the edge, Jean released him from his mouth, a thin trail of saliva connecting them. "Not yet," Jean moaned, his voice rough from sucking on Marco's thick length, "I want you to cum while you're inside me." Marco's eyes widen, his heart beats faster than he thought possible, and he is left dazed as Jean slides off of him to find the bottle he was fiddling with earlier.  
  
Jean’s arms were quick to fling themselves across the bed in search of the pesky bottle, his sticky fingers however, were slow and clumsy and not much use for time. Whining at his misfortune, he groped and huffed before his fingers closed around the cool glass bottle, the whale oil inside the perfect thing for two lovers not yet exhausted.  
  
Reclining back atop his bed that was beginning to smell of sex and the tang of bodily fluids that were not his alone, Jean grinned lopsidedly, the nerves from earlier completely gone. With lips that were still shined with precum and spit, he caressed Marco’s cheek, leaving a wet mark that had Marco hissing with the thrill of it. Leaning up to nuzzle his nose against Jean’s ear, he breathed against the redden flesh all his murmurs of happiness he needed to express. Jean smiled coyly, listening and whispering soothing words to the other as he crawled over his thighs, balancing on his heels carefully on the quaking bed.  
  
“Marco, now hold still for me.” The two toned blond instructed, snatching the goat skinned condom up. Marco shifted on the bed slightly, allowing his thighs to ease apart, his eyes open and watchful as Jean began to stretch with his fingers something that smelled like a sheep’s intestine. Trying not to let his nose betray his nervousness with its twitching, Marco focused on the feeling of slight fingers against his cock once more. He rolled his bottom lip with his teeth, watching his prince delicately place the soft material over his arousal, tugging at a little draw strong at the end where it brushed against mounds of black curls. Marco wiggled his ass a bit, unconsciously trying to ease himself into relaxation with the odd little contraption.  
  
“Almost there, beloved.” Jean murmured, the name tasting of honey as he said it, as he felt it. This man under him was who he was madly in love with, with who he could see a gracious life full of nights like these and quiet days of adoration and comfort. This was his beloved, this was his love. Jean bit his lip hard, but his grin could not be contained.  
  
Marco was as stunned by the word as the prince, though it did not fall from his mouth. Inside the Wolf King’s mind he had called and titled Jean many a things, lovely names and sweetened descriptions, but beloved was by far his favorite. To have such a title, a gleaning moment of assurance that this man held him in loving esteem, was a craving Marco knew he had but did not know how to fill. His heart soaked it up now, his tongue mulling over the word; his mind quieted any doubt that once might have been conjured.  
  
Now thumbing at the corked bottle, already loosened from earlier ministrations, the couple each composed themselves. Jean was the first to speak, asking once more if the other was ready for what was to come. Marco nodded, biting his bottom lip and wincing as those loving fingers caressed his covered cock once more. Jean grinned with delight, pouring the amber liquid into the creases of his palms before he grabbed hold of the King’s arousal, feeling it pulse greedily in his hands as he squeezed the oil between his fingers and against the skin of the condom, the oil leaking through to caress his cock slickly.  
  
Marco bucked, digging his heels in to bedding, inhaling sharp and long as he swallowed thickly. He was certain he could smell the spike in Jean’s arousal as well as his own, the prince chuckling softly as he began to massage up and down the length, thumbing at the covered head, the texture of the condom now a pleasant torture against his sensitive skin.  
  
Jean released him, biting his lip again when Marco whimpered at the prince’s hand's absence. Straddling the other's hips, Jean felt their cocks sliding against each other, immobilizing them for a moment, before Jean sat up and slathered more oil onto his fingers, reaching down to open himself further, adding to his own wetness. Marco watched hungrily, but he would not rush Jean, instead asking if he could do the honors. The Prince flushed a dark red that stained his face handsomely and nodded shyly, handing the oil to Marco. It was slick, smelled mildly sweet and was smooth to his skin. He let it coat his fingers and warm at his touch. He slid one finger inside of Jean with ease, the oil and Jean's own precum mixing. Jean whined, rocking himself down onto Marco's finger; it was a beautiful sight, one that the freckled king wished to entomb in his memories forever. "More Marco, you won't break me." Jean groaned, moving his hips insistently. Marco happily obliged, working Jean open and teasing the sweetest sounds from his kiss swollen lips.  
  
Jean’s mouth had fallen open, jaw slacked as he felt the long finger curl and nudge inside him, silky smooth with oil and with a warmness that only flesh could bring. However, Jean was still greedy and as a prince, used to having his way. With a shuddering smirk that he could barely pass as cocky, he snapped his hips downward, the motion eliciting the feel of promised relief though his thighs ached from suspending his weight, his knees dug into bed. He was practically on top of Marco, knew that his cum and the oil swirling down his thighs was dripping onto the other’s stomach, glossing it in dewy drops.  
  
The Wolf King smirked back, more bite in his grin with teeth that almost pricked past lips—an old habit of having pointed fangs. “Jean, you are too impatient,” Marco whined, but his smile betrayed his delight at having his lover passionate and greedy. Marco was a monarch that loved to please, and being in bed with this gorgeous man was no different.  
  
“I am not impatient, merely eager.” Jean chuckled, his brows easing and furrowing as Marco gifted him with the sensation of two fingers easing their way inside simultaneously, stretching and burrowing inside him. Jean was quick to arch and slacken, one of his palms resting on Marco’s chest to keep himself balanced, his breaths coming out hoarse. Eyes rested shut and squeezing, Marco simply enjoyed himself, loving the feel of velvet that was at his fingertips, his thumb rubbing alongside the coarse hairs that decorated Jean’s groin, cum dripping down Marco’s bared wrist as he worked.  
  
He stilled Jean's hips, allowing Marco to do all the work of opening Jean up, slowly turning and curling his fingers, drinking up all the little mewls and whines that came out of the other. Marco chanced a third finger, wiggling it in with little effort, Jean only pausing for a moment before he was arching back into Marco's steady thrusting. "I ache to be inside you Jean," Marco teased, curling his fingers ever so slightly to hit the spot that made Jean moan the loudest. Jean bit down on his knuckle, stifling the noises that threatened to escape his lungs. "I want the feel of this incredible heat around me so badly. Do you wish for the same?" He grinned as Jean growled, pushing him deeper into the bed with his hips rolling, Marco once again enveloped in his beloved's scent. "Yes, fuck, yes I do Marco, and I will not wait any longer." With a sense of conviction, Jean lined up Marco's cock to his entrance, teasing the head for a moment, and then lowered himself down upon the length.  
  
Marco hissed, willing his hips to steady themselves, to not buck like he wished them to in this moment of intimacy, his stomach exposed to the ceiling, head thrashing against bedding. One of his hands at the curve of Jean’s ass tightened in its grasp, causing Jean to growl as he slid all the way down and flush against Marco’s groin. Marco feared his eyes would roll back into his head and never return, so intense was the feeling of heat, of the squeezing sensation of being inside a body, of being with someone who he loved intently and dearly.  
  
The smirk was wiped right off of Jean’s face as he adjusted, taking shallow gulps of air. His face was burning like an inferno, he was sure, his splayed thighs on either side of his lover feeling prickly hot with sweat as well. Perhaps if he just shifted a slight bit—Jean made a sharp cry, grinding his back teeth as he swallowed.  
  
Fingers coming to caress every bit of flesh that he could reach, Marco began to whisper sweet things, finer than anything Jean had ever heard. Compliments and thanks, mentions of love and delight. At each word that swam past his ears, Jean began to relax, allowing himself to shift again, this time more slowly. Pressing his knees back into the sheets, he steadied himself once more before easing his way up, taking the time to enjoy the look on his lover’s face as he did. Marco looked positively ruined, as he should have been. Jean smiled something wicked then, wiggling himself all the way up till the head of the other’s cock almost left the heat of his body, the oil staining Marco’s blackened hair at the base of his cock.  
  
With a dazed question in his eyes, Marco was too slow to catch the huff of laughter from the prince, for in an instant he groaned like a man dying from the greatest of pleasures. Sinking downward a little faster than before, Jean snapped his hips up again and rolled them downward, each time picking up speed, each time filling the bedroom with the wet sound of fucking.  
  
Jean's noises were elevating; the more he moved the better he felt, Marco's cock so thick and hot inside him he could barely stand it. Marco was not much different, calling Jean's name as if it was the only word he knew in human tongue, as if it were a precious word spoken only reverently. Jean's body was bliss and the Wolf King knew he would be satisfied with no one else but his Prince, and if this was the only moment they could steal together, then it would be worth it.  
  
Jean rolled his hips down into Marco sharply, both of them groaning, Jean dragging in breath. "Marco, Marco, I—” And Marco sat up, careful not to disconnect their bodies, before sliding Jean onto his back, the prince linking his legs together around Marco's waist, his head cradled by the blankets at the foot of the bed. They were much closer to each other now, their breath mingling, and Marco slowly thrust into Jean once more, the other's eyes clenching tight, crying out for Marco to go faster and harder.  
  
Marco bit his lip so fiercely that it bled, the blood being swallowed down with his panting breath as he nuzzled his cheek against Jean’s, tasting the salt of the other’s sweat on his tongue, lapping it up with relish.  
  
Jean made enthusiastic noises of pleasure, legs clenching tighter and tighter round Marco’s middle as the other began to thrust downward with little to no mercy—Jean didn’t mind, in fact, he only screamed his desire louder. He screamed until he grew could no more, making wet little hiccups and moans that sounded like wisps of magic in the air, hymns and verses that Marco knew not what they meant but know that they were tokens of magnificence.  
  
Clenching his arms harder at Jean’s skin, at the hardness of his lean muscles and hot body, Marco bucked sloppily with a groan, losing his agility that he had once prized himself on, though he had never counted on being inside the warmth of Jean Kirschtien, the greatest enemy to his mind’s clarity. All he wanted was to stay in Jean forever, to feel this tight heat forever, to maul the other’s lips with kisses.  
  
However, Marco could feel himself slipping, could feel himself itching under the skin to release, to mark and claim Jean in one of the most intimate of ways known to almost every creature. He could bare it no longer, the swell of his arousal, the heat of the other, the curve of his body and the smell of his cum. Marco whined, his nose nuzzling the underside of Jean’s jaw, lips latching kisses along the other’s neck, teeth grazing across skin where he could taste the other’s pulse.  
  
"My…my love," Marco cried, thrusting into Jean desperately, seeking to bury himself into his lover, to feel himself melt at the other's heat. "My love, I'm going to—ah, ah!—I'm going—"  
  
Jean raked his fingers down Marco's back, the Wolf King surprised at their sharpness, the slight tinge of pain to his skin only sharpening his pleasure. "Please," Jean breathed, tightening down on Marco's cock, screaming when Marco hit that sensitive part inside him. Marco growled and kept hitting that spot diligently, making Jean scream and claw at his back harder, pulling in Marco as deeply as he can. Marco thrusts once more and suddenly Jean is impossibly tight around him, pulsing erratically and arching his back, their chests flush together, "Marco! Marco fuck, please!" Jean whined, thrusting weakly against his lover, who had stilled to watch Jean unravel. Marco whimpered, moving once again, feeling Jean squeeze his cock and then it happened, he reached his end with Jean, his climax washing over him like waves hitting the rocks during a storm, one after the other. Feeling stretched, it was like burning, as if he was a slab of metal being worked into a sword, churned over and over again, and doused in the coals.  
  
He came with a satisfied sigh, smelling the other’s cum sharply fill the room. Shifting, but not leaving the warmth of Jean’s body, Marco gulped air in his lungs, encouraging Jean to do the same with soft kisses to his cheek. They laid there, Marco’s cheek pressed against Jean’s shoulder, listening to the sporadic beat of their hearts. They lay there as their eyes closed, and Marco knew he had a mate at last.  
...  
  
Waking up in the soft comforts of a bed was foreign to Marco, and yet his feet curled under cozy covers, his arms never giving lax as they held the prince close to him, his nose pressed against the back of Jean’s neck. He hummed with satisfaction, noticing that Jean’s scent was different, that the Wolf King’s own clung to it to create a desirable union of earth and what smelled of sky and smoke, or air and terrain. Marco breathed it in with a lazy smile, content to lay here for the rest of his life like a lazy lap dog curled up around his master.  
  
However, the person who he was sided next too, seemed to have other plans.  
  
Shifting in his now blearily thinned sleep, Jean stretched out his arms like a cat that had the delight of lapping up all the milk in the dairy pans. Yawning loudly and smacking his lips, a noise that Marco found endearing more than ill-mannered, He scratched at his bare stomach. The sheets that had ridden round his middle were crinkled downward, and at the mere sight of the goose flesh rising on his arms, Jean felt the cold of the morning seep into his bones. He scowled softly, spying the stacked kindling that had gone unlit last night. Suddenly, that scowl perked into a sly grin at the memory of that very night.  
  
Stretching again just to hear the bones pop, he wiggled out from the other’s embrace, broad arms trying their hardest to keep the prince in the cocoon of bedding. Jean only huffed out a chuckle, pealing his naked self from his lover who pouted pathetically at the separation.  
  
“Oh stop whimpering, I shall just be over there,” Jean pointed to the hearth, “and be back in your arms soon.” His words seemed to give Marco some consolidation, as he watched the bigger man smile in a delightful manner, closing his eyes once more and nuzzling the pillow that Jean had rested his head on previously.  
  
Rubbing his hands together and kneeling naked over the cold ashes of a fireplace, Jean grabbed a handful of straw that sat dusty in a basket. Stuffing a good amount in the cracks of the kindling, he added a few bigger logs of cedar, knowing the burning wood would smell pleasant and perhaps choke out the stench of sex in the room before the handmaidens came to tidy up the place.  
  
Scratching the flint a few times, finally a spark flung forth and the straw caught fire, the race of red rings from the heat swallowing the fibers and turning it to ash before it caught on the splintered woof of the kindling. Ankles balancing his weight, Jean poked at the flame a bit with a broken twig, making sure the fire would burn while he crawled back into bed.  
  
Marco’s nose twitched as he smelled the soft curls of smoke, his eyes flicking open as he raised himself on his elbows, his thighs much too sore to allow him to scoot out of the bed. Realizing quickly that a fire was a normal thing for a human to create, he relaxed, settling an easy smile on his face as Jean turned back to him, standing up and wiping the ash from his feet before he crawled back on top of the bed on his knees. Marco received his mate with open arms and a kiss, for that was what this prince was now to him.  
  
Marco would never tell Jean, he probably could never even gather the courage to even speak of what last night meant to him, really meant to him. Though not every wolf abided by the tradition for whatever reason, it was common, and especially so for the monarch of the wolves, to have a mate. Such a mate was well loved quickly and lastingly by the wolf and would never be forsaken in thought, action, or heart. To make love with the intended mate, therefore, consummated it. It was as if it was now written in stone and layered in gold—Jean was Marco’s mate, whether the prince knew it or not.  
  
Marco frowned softly to himself as he buried his nose against the crook of Jean’s neck. The prince had taken to lazily rubbing his palms over the soft little scars on Marco’s back and arms, telltale signs of minor fights that a Wolf King must engage in if he is to guard his kin and territory, unfortunately.  
  
He would not tell Jean that he had a wolf for a mate, a king wolf no less. It would certainly not do any good, it would only cause more stress and strife for the prince, and that was something Marco just could not bear to do, to have a hand in.  
  
Making a decision, though it pained him, Marco quieted his heart that had suddenly turned sour. It would do best to not dwell on such thoughts anymore, especially since their relationship had not a chance at blooming—it would die like everything else in autumn, be covered in the coldness of winter, and would become love that would freeze and never thaw.  
  
Jean was oblivious to his love’s thoughts, and delighted himself with pricking the smatters of freckles on Marco’s chest with the pad of his finger. “It is but midday, and yet we have not had our morning meal. Though, I can think of a few things you could take that would slate any appetite.” Jean smirked, his mischievous eyes flicking upward to stare at Marco, though the gaze on the other’s face was not what he had wished to show, was not what he wished to see.  
  
Marco, in an instant, remembered. Remembered the forest and the witch’s words, remembered that time was his only restraint, like a fettered collar round his throat. He remembered, and so with a voice that croaked, he asked for the exact time.  
  
“I’m afraid I do not know but whatever pressing matter you have to attend, surely it can wait?” Jean smiled, trying to coddle the easiness of the air back into their hearts, to calm them both down. Marco, however, was already struggling to sit upright.  
  
“Jean, I am sorry but I must go.” He jostled his arms into his shirtsleeves, hopping round the room for his breeches to hide his nakedness. Jean sat up on his elbows with shock. “What? Why? The other servants shall not miss you! I’ll...I’ll tell them to keep quiet about your absence.” Jean promised the other, his voice raw with the slightness of a temper that he always had.  
  
“Jean, I am sorry but I really cannot stay.” Marco spoke, pleaded, as he shoved his feet into his boots and strung up the laces tight till they choked up his shins. Marco could feel the anger on the other’s face, could see it paint his face pink, flush up his neck to settle in his cheeks. His eyes shone, and Marco had to stop himself from whimpering, for Jean looked fierce.  
  
“Why?!” He shouted, his voice causing a few cardinals that had roosted outside the windows of the prince’s room to spook and take flight. Marco watched them flee the sky in a cloud of red.  
  
“Did you merely want to try your hand at me? To spy at what was between the youngest prince’s legs? Such a prize I’m sure, to bed me, me, the unapproachable angry one!” Jean raged, grabbing at the bed sheets to shield his body from the indecency that he supposed wrongly that Marco had wrought.  
  
“Please, Jean, it is not like that my love, it is simply that...” Marco’s voice quieted as he ran to the window, seeing the noon day’s sun almost reach its place in the sky, the churchyard near the kingdom readying to toll its massive brass bell. Marco began to panic, looking terrified of Jean’s anger and his slipping loss of time.  
  
“I’m...” Marco took a gasping breath, Jean looking livid, awaiting and explanation that Marco simply could not give him. Biting back a howl of desperation, he chose to whisper instead. “I’m sorry.” His broken voice rang in Jean’s ears, louder than any bell, as the masked wolf fled.  
  
Staring down at his white knuckles that gripped at bed sheet and animal hide, Jean inhaled sharply, flinging his bare feet to the cold stone floor and almost tripping over the carpet in his haste to chase the other down and make him pay for this humiliation and betrayal.  
  
The stairs trampled under his feet as he raced downward and to the back entrance of the castle that pooled into the garden. Straw stuck in-between his toes as he ran past the kitchens, scaring two cats who were sleeping in the baskets of potatoes, making them yowl harshly. Once he reached the courtyard, smelled the fresh cut peppermint and the rotting pears falling from the trees, he panted out his breath, resting his palms on his knees as he sank. Hiking up the sheet closer to his body, he stormed to and fro, checking every cornerstone and every patch of flowers. Marigolds, catnip, the last of the thistles—all proved fruitless. He was nowhere to be found.  
  
Shortly, one of castle handmaidens came loping down from the kitchen, her skirts in her fists, she shook her hands vigorously like a skinny flapping bird about to take flight. “Prince Jean! The air is much too crisp outside for you to be dawdling it in without as much as a scrap of undergarments! Sir, please do come inside immediately!” She wailed, making a most outrageous racket that the prince could do nothing but abide by her. Taking one meager look back at the garden that now seemed lost entirely to him, he dejectedly walked back inside the cold walls of the palace. Soft brown eyes from the dark forest watched him as we went.


	7. The Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the forest they went.

Marco could not stop himself from visiting the outskirts of the forest every day, his paws dragging over the thick mud that had accumulated over the last of fall’s rain. Some days he would stay for hours, straining his eyes that had become saddened and deadened. Other times he could merely only stay for minutes before he would have to gallop back to the dens to attend to his kin’s needs and wishes. Each time he went, he would always return sadder.  
  
The other wolves could not help him and Marco did not wish for them to even try. This, he was sure—and convinced himself as such—was the price to be paid for lying, for falling in love, and for deserting the man of his affections. He would carry out his sentence nobly, quietly, with all the restraint bred in him.  
  
For the first month of Marco’s torturous visits to the edge of the forest, he did not catch a single glance of the young prince. Jean simply was not there. Marco had circled the orchards, trailing close behind the large draft horses that yanked out rotted pear tree stumps, but the prince was not wandering the pathways, getting his fill of the sweet fruit. Some days he got as close to the kitchens as he dared hope for, straining to listen, and yet he could not hear the servants chatter about the prince—they, for once, has no gossip to tell.  
  
It was snowing in soft specks, covering the garden in a blanket of white that hid the ugly brownness of the dead plants when Marco was able to catch his first glimpse. Already a month had passed, a moon had swelled and waned, and with it Marcos’ heart began to thin.  
  
He watched him emerge from the palace, statelier than Marco had ever seen him, dressed in drab grays that made his face appear ashen, the ease at which he walked added no delicacy about him, and instead it made it appear as if he was a waif of a thing walking on air. In his dark red gloves he carried a book that Marco was sure had no fantastically wonderful stories—his Jean did not seem to be in a mood to be cheered. He did look beautiful though, and it was that thought that had Marco whining pathetically.  
  
The Wolf King immediately, upon seeing the other, had to curb his want to run. Instead he pranced in place like he had seen the wild mountain ponies do when they were excited, and Marco indeed was excited. He felt that if he did not hold his heart in check that it would bounce out before him to greet the other.  
  
It would be wiser for the King to stay in the darkness of the forest that shadowed his charcoal coat, which blended him in so well with the scenery that no one would suspect he was there, watching, pining. But, Marco had a weakened will when it came to his heart and to those he cared dearly for, the Prince being his biggest and most cherished weak spot.  
  
Sneaking forward, it was minutes before he felt the cold seep into his padded paws, for the snowflakes to nettle their way at the top of his coat, for the snow to coat his underbelly like dandelion seeds all soft and light.  
  
Upon reaching the other, briskly hidden by hedges and bushes weighed down with a fortnight of snow, Marco watched the other stare angrily at his book. It took little to no guessing for the King to realize he was the immediate cause of distress, that the hard look in Jean’s eyes, of his flattened grimace, was all the fault of Marco.  
  
Belly cold and wet, Marco snuffled his nose in the snow, blinking quietly. He was content to watch the other, even if he was in pain. Marco knew that Jean would not wish to see him, it would be like assaulting his gaze with a dagger dripped in poison, the greatest offense he could do.  
  
But then his lover’s hands begun to shake and crease the pages of the book, his wrists darting over his wet eyes almost as a constant twitch, his shoulders hunched in, and not because of the cold blowing though the tainted garden.  
  
The wolf could not bite his tongue, could not clamp his mouth shut when he heard the first hiccup of a cry followed by a sneer that halted the noise away.  
  
“Do not cry, my love.” Marco whispered softly, pleadingly. The realization that in a panic he spoke washed over him colder than any snowstorm when Jean made a noise of astonishment.  
  
The Prince gasped, stunned for a speck of time before Marco could see the rage fill his face. Marco still would not bolt, choosing to only sit rigid in place.  
  
“How dare you come back to this very place after what you did!” Jean cried out, hot tears no longer falling, instead his temper flared and crackled. Marco’s tail curved under himself in his piteous shame. He could not stare at the other any longer, missing the shaking in Jean’s voice and the fast pace of his heart that was a mixed shamble of hate and betrayal of feelings.  
  
“Explain yourself! I asked the staff, but no one by the name of Marco works in this palace!” He snapped out and Marco’s gut sank; now there was no more lie to swim to, to clutch to. He had been deserted by his own failings, by his own identity, and by his own foolishness.  
  
“I…I cannot tell you, it would make you hate me, more than you already do.” He spoke, and Jean scoffed in an instant, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the other’s words. “Oh, no, do tell! Nothing would break my heart more than you already have.” His voice was thin and it no longer shook with its conviction.  
  
“Hurting you is the last thing I wanted to do,” Marco pleaded with is eyes, his voice, anything that might convey to a human how very sorry he was, though he knew Jean could still not see him.  
  
Clenching his jaw, for Marco could hear the teeth scrape and clamp against each other, Jean rose from the bench he had so sternly been seated at, like a stately king who was on the warpath of vengeance. “If that is the case then you should not have fucked me like some toy and then taken your leave!”  
  
Marco whimpered, feeling slighted at the accusations that weren’t true at all, that vilified as well as maimed him. However, Jean’s wrath was his own, and Marco was not as undeserving of it as he knew. He had in fact, lied, for that was the truth. Though, if only Jean could understand!  
  
“I promise I have been faithful to you, have loved you with the most honorable intentions—” Marco began to reason with the scalding red faced Prince, though with each word of entreat it seemed to only garner reproach from the other.  
  
Jean was about to scowl and damn Marco to the depths of the forest where the Prince was sure some beastly animal or ditch would fell him, when the other, still cowering in his bush, snapped.  
  
His voice was awkward in its motion, but sincere nevertheless. “I wish to marry you, Jean.”  
  
The air stiffened, thick with snowflakes and the rushed breathing of two bickering lovers who were now stone silent and wide eyed.  
  
“What?” The question was spoken icily, though there was a croak to its finality, when Jean snapped his jaw shut, it gave Marco enough hope to press his proposal forward, like he so greatly wished to. He knew the timing was inappropriate, the manner of asking so ill advised, and yet he inched closer to the snowy folds of the dead bush, his eyes blinking rapidly trying to read the others face.  
  
“It wasn’t just a casual tryst, and you, beloved, you were not just a conquest. I want and wish more than anything to be your husband and for you to be mine.” Marco could feel the whine of misery bubbling in his throat as he watched Jean sidestep and stumble back to his bench, falling heavily upon it. One gloved hand gripped tight at his broach to loosen his cloak round his neck to breathe, his other palm squeezing at his knee in a fierce movement of nerves. His eyes looked almost wet, and Marco could not bear to see them spill over unless with joy.  
  
“But because of who I am, I cannot.” Marco spoke his truth most heart wrenchingly, for it pained him to have the words finally surface from his mind and enter the thick cold air where at once reality would become ruthless and his love would surely break like something fragile.  
  
“You have lied, you are not a servant of the palace, so who are you?” Jean’s voice was colder still, nothing, Marco feared, could ever hope to thaw it. However, a final action from the wolf might at least dull the horror of confusion that was more than likely swimming freely and horribly in the Prince’s mind. Marco could not let the Prince think himself the blame, when it really lied in Marco.  
  
Not wasting any time in being delicate, Marco pushed through the deadened bush that had been his sanctuary for these long months of pining and loving. The Wolf King wished to never see such a glorious blooming again on such a shrub as long as he lived—it would remind him too much of the love he was about to lose.  
  
Snow seeped through his paws and blanketed his fur like birds down, and yet he shivered not from the cold, but from the pure look of astonished horror on his beloved’s face as he beheld the Wolf King.  
  
Jean’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as if his scream was a dying thing that had perished before it could make its ascent. He watched the wolf, for though it was massive it could not be mistaken for a bear, emerge from frosted brown leaves, shaking and ripping them from their tender boughs like paper.  
  
The animal was indeed a giant, nearly as tall as Jean when he sat upright in his posture, with eyes that burned bright against coal black fur.  
  
Feeling that he would either be sick or distraught, the Prince choked out his next words of disbelief. “A...a wol--”  
  
“Jean.” The wolf spoke, a careful rolling of his red bruised colored tongue that Jean, in his wearied state of mind, likened to the red flames of hell. Shutting his own jaw tight with a hardening click of pearl teeth, Jean took a shuddering breath through his nose, for this wolf indeed appeared to speak the human tongue.  
  
The wolf also, Jean feared through his hazed mind, sounded alarmingly like his Marco.  
  
Marco did not blame Jean for the way his face drained of all color to leave not one speck of a blush—not even anger or affection could stain his stony white slab of a face. Marco would have very much liked to nuzzle that poor face, looking deadened and corpse like, but he still knew his place, and so on his hind legs he sat.  
  
“Jean, my love, I am so deeply sorry we had to meet like this.” Accompanying his apology that tore his heart in two was a bow, befitting any servant to their master, for the young Prince who seemed to recoil at the sudden gesture. The book that had been tightened to the Prince’s fingers dropped to the snow, the greedy wet cold marring and sloshing up the ink so that it would forever be unreadable.  
  
“Jean, Jean! It is me, it’s Marco.” The Wolf pleaded with its voice that seemed to tighten with every gust of cold wind scattering it away. Still reclined in a bow, he poised his snout upward, his eyes gleaming to meet Jean’s. His lover’s golden eyes had become larger than the full moon, pooled with wonderment and fear.  
  
“...How?” The Prince finally swallowed. Marco watched the Prince’s flingers flit to the soft bone and pearl handled dagger at his side. It was a small thing indeed, a glorified letter opener, but Marco knew that his mate could wield it as well as any wolf could snatch with their claws.  
  
The Prince had not met his beloved’s eyes in a while, unable to look into the face of the creature that he was sure had either eaten his lover or had cruelly played him for a fool and would be the one to devour him. “How did you become human?” The Prince asked, regaining his speech, and fast, for now the words burned in his throat like venomous spit. He twisted the chain at his small scabbard.  
  
Still bowing, the Wolf King answered gracefully, already seeming to have accepted his fate. “I asked the forest witch to help me. I wished to hold you, at least once.” He admitted, and in a flash he saw his human lover’s cheeks tint just the slightest of pinks, like the underside of an apple blossom in March.  
  
Making a move to rise up and behold more of his lover’s face, the face he had remembered, all flushed and haughty, he too late forgot the circumstances before the two of them in the cold winter air.  
  
Seeing the movement of the giant wolf as a threat, Jean yanked his fingers to the hilt of the dagger till his palm was bruised into the pommel and his fingers latched tight to the grip. He held it before him shaking, forced into a stance of defense and rage.  
  
Tightening his back teeth into a slow grind, the Wolf carefully reclined himself again, looking less like a bowing creature overwhelmed by admiration and more like a beast awaiting the executioner’s block.  
  
“I will not mind, nor will I question, if you wish to kill me.” He spoke, breaths panting into the coldness, nails on paws wiggling deeper into the snow in an urge to subdue the sensational pull of escape that was twisting and writhing in Marco’s gut. If that was how Jean wished to end their relationship, with a permanent severing, Marco could not blame the other.  
  
Yet, the hand on the dagger stayed their aim, and fingers retracted from a grip more desperate than sure. Jean could not, would not bring himself to commit such a horror. That wolf had, after all, spoken like Marco and had eyes and a manner much like Marco’s. But, he of course had to be sure.  
  
Sheathing the dagger till the metal gave a jolt at the leather scabbard, Jean licked his lips and blinked his eyes quickly as if warding off a stupor of fright. “You are really a wolf, my Marco?” He asked.  
  
Marco’s eyes brandished such a look of relief that Jean was sure the massive creature would throw himself down on his paws and weep. “Yes my love, yes.” He wailed with a tremble that had Jean’s brows furrowing and his eyes softening.  
Inching forward, still cautious, Jean kneeled down in the snow, his cloak collecting about him. Just to smell the other, closer to him now, to hear his heart beat against the soft velvet of his own ears, was a pure joy to Marco that he knew he would grieve to miss.  
  
He did not mind it as Jean peered down at the wolf’s eyes, thumb stroking against the cheek combed with bristled fur, watching the pupils dilate and calm.  
  
Jean himself felt any apprehension he once fostered in his heart be doomed by the floods of his affection filling his chest, as those eyes that this creature boasted were the same beautiful shade of brown as the eyes of the man he fell in love with.  
  
“It...it really is you. I cannot believe it...” Jean breathed, still stroking his fingers through the mane of the other, his palm caressing ever so gently. Marco turned just as sweetly into that touch, nuzzling at fingers and licking at the other’s thumb shyly.  
  
“Jean.” Marco sat up once more, taller that Jean ever could be as he knelt before the other in the snow. His knees had been soaked through his woolen trousers and though he shivered, the Prince would not be deterred to move an inch from his spot if Marco too did not sway with him.  
  
Craning his head delicately, he began to nuzzle the other’s hand more, reverently so, in a way that expressed a deeply felt apology. “Forgive me.” He whispered, and though it was strange to hear such a noise come from a powerful wolf, Jean could not be disturbed. Curling his fingers to stroke at the other’s neck and face like he did in the garden so many months ago, Jean bit his lip. Surprising Marco with his vigor, Jean wrapped his arms tight round the wolf’s neck, burying his cold tipped nose into thick rolls of fur that smelled of tender wilderness.  
  
“What are we to do? I cannot marry a wolf!” Jean laughed bitterly, biting back a sob. Marco could see the other’s lashes drip with tears and it made his own jowls let loose a whine. Nuzzling and licking at the ear of the other comfortingly, the gesture of piteous solidarity was broken like a harsh snap with the caw of a single crow above.  
  
Eyes flicking to the bird that was hopping to and fro from the chill in the air, it finally settled on a low hanging persimmon branch. Marco was about to shoo the bird away with a well-placed growl when another noise, much more foul, pierced the winter air.  
  
Pity onto the poor handmaiden that had wrung open the young master’s windows to chisel the collected frost on the panes and instead found the assaulting image of the young prince’s head being swallowed by a brute of a creature.  
Dropping the wooden pick with a snap of her wrist, the young maid screamed till the windowpanes themselves shook with her racket.  
  
Marco, balking at the woman’s shriek, felt Jean hold faster to Marco’s coat, eyes wild as they both heard the woman’s blasting howl of “A WOLF, A WOLF, DEAR HEAVENS A WOLF!”  
  
She had scarcely uttered another breath asunder towards the couple in the garden when the stamping of boots and the grabbing of slings and nets of hard chain could be heard rattling along the chambers. The brothers, it had seemed, had heard her call like a horns appeal to war.  
  
The guards were trailing behind the brambling steps of the brothers; Marco could hear their hustle and smell their anger. However, such emotions spiked into fear as soon as they caught sight of what appeared to have ensnared the wolf’s interest. The Wolf King watched as their bloodlust eyes turned angry and fearful, a combination that made their iris’s glow.  
  
“Marco—” Jean began, his fingers releasing fast to Marco’s fur, only to yank the wolf back to him at his side so that the Prince’s face hardened against the gaze of the brothers and soldiers collecting nearer to them. Jean perhaps knew he would have nothing to offer his wolf in protection except his words, and so he set to rambling for those approaching them to be gone.  
  
Some had taken to jabbing a shield in their wake, others swinging mace and mail—and then there were the brothers, wearing still their undershirts and half sulking boots upon their feet in their haste. Such faces as theirs were red and their eyes malicious, snarled droughts of white breath escaping past their clenched teeth. It was the first time Marco had ever been so fearful of man.  
  
However, before one of the brothers could taint the air with an order or a guttural yell, the beady eyed black crow cawed again, snapping its beak to and fro before it picked up flight. Marco watched it go for half a second before he caught a glint in its eye as it neared over the first of the Enchanted Forests trees, the firs swaying softly in the snowy breeze. The Wolf King paused to taste the air, feeling Jean’s fingers wound tighter in his coat.  
  
Unhinging his jaw, with little time for explanation, he snarled out fast flying words to the prince. “Run, Jean, run and I will catch you.” Startled with such an assurance, Jean flashed his eyes to the other’s, quick enough to see them blur as the Wolf nudged him forward and turned back again to snarl like a monster the attackers surely felt he was.  
  
Picking up his heels, Jean ran, swerving past clinging hands and knocking his bony shoulders into broader ones. He panted his breath and swallowed winter air, only passing by another few steps until he heard loping feet behind him. Turning his neck round quick he saw his wolf, hackles raised, barreling towards him.  
  
Without any more warning, Jean felt Marco practically run underneath him, knocking his legs apart before he ran through, so that the Prince, shrieking, was settled on the back of the wolf. Fingers knitting into soft scruff, Jean squeezed his legs round Marco’s sides, much like he was riding a horse and not a giant wolf who had taken to galloping fast through hedges and cobblestone.  
  
Upon seeing their young master saddled to the back of a beast about to take flight, the guards began to scream their horror and the brothers took aim at Marco’s feet to trip him, but it was too late. With a running bound, as Marco had never dared to do before, he leapt over the fence despite Jean’s protests to halt and find another way round.  
  
The pricks of iron barely gleaned over the softness of Marco’s belly as the wolf flew into the air, Jean burying his nose into coarse thick fur to hide the look of terror branded on his face. It felt like ages before leather padded paws sank back to the ground and took up speed again, faster than before.  
  
Once deep in the forest and far away from the angry voices and promises of skinning the wolf alive, the two began to breathe again, trotting cautiously in the copse that was becoming dark and darker and longer and longer, like a landscape being constantly stretched by a pair of divine fingers unknown.  
  
The shorter the steps the Wolf King took, the further it seemed the forest was devouring them. No longer could the Prince see the peeking light of the winter afternoon through the stalks of tree trunks. The snow, dusting having melted into his cloak and Marco’s back, hadn’t even touched the ground of the Enchanted Forest, the branches above too thick, the snow too pure to grace the muddy grounds around them that stank of decay. Instead, hard ice packed and thickened against stones as big as fists and felled logs as big as bodies.  
  
Eerily, as Marco had come to realize the forest could very much be, there was silence all about them. No longer could a lone crow’s caw be heard echoing above the canopy of trees, Marco’s ears falling still to any vibrations about them—though he had the distinct feeling that something was coming, something big and without color, something ancient and unnerving.  
  
It took the beast much too long to realize it was magic.  
  
In an instant shock of heat, like a warm summer air that choked more than dazed, it rushed past them and swallowed them whole. Stunned, both monarchs had the distant feeling of being in the careful mouth of a predator, not yet sunken into its stomach for a meal.  
  
Clutching fast and hard to Marco’s fur, Jean hissed out his fear, scrambling to claw at the dagger still at his belt. Marco hadn’t the heart to tell him that that thin blade of steel would do nothing to protect its wielder from this horror.  
  
At once a fiendish black bird with glinting eyes made itself known by swooping down and pecking twice at Marco’s head, the wolf barking out angrily as he pranced to and fro like a spooked horse. Jean made a clenching motion with his jaw, Marco hearing the grating of teeth as they watched the petite bird swoop upward again and weave in and out of tree branches.  
  
Finding his luck running thinner and thinner, Marco leap into a sprint, following the bird that seemed to pick up greater speed as if to mock the wolf. Jean, none too pleased at the fact that they were wading deeper and deeper into the forest that reeked of unsavory things and malevolent forces, cried out with a huff. “Marco, where are we going?!” But Marco who had his eyes fixed fast on the bird above, could give no answer, for he had no answer. Zoë did well to keep their mysteries about them as well as any dark cloak.  
  
Eventually, the pounding of paws on the decaying earth slowed, the scent of the bird in flight not as urgent. Echoing about them, still, was the scent of sharpness that burned even Jean’s human nose. The Witch was close by, and sure enough, Marco could see the edgings of the cabin come into view. It seemed taller now, propped on bog water with storm clouds around the roof like a demonic halo. Marco heard Jean make a little whimper of fright, his own claws elongating in the earth to find his balance, for the strain of running and fright had upset his heart near to bursting.  
  
Letting the Prince slide off his back, Marco stared wildly into the dark for the crow, though such a feat proved extremely foolish in this heated darkness. Nudging at Jean’s elbow, Marco urged him to stay close, for while he trusted Jean to hold his own, this prince was a human with human faults—and the thing they were about to face would prey on such shortcomings as easy as a serpent looking into a nest of hatchlings.  
  
Falling to his knees to catch his breath, Jean made no move to disturb Marco who had settled by his side, staring hard and long at the cabin that neither of them made a move to approach. Even though it was the only tamed looking thing in the forest, it still showed itself to be a lair of mysterious power, and neither monarch was sure their rule could be pitted successfully against it.  
  
Finding that he had filled his lungs to the brim with dank forest air and swirling mist, Jean cringed with lamination. “Marco, what in the devils hell! Why did you bring me to this wasteland cabin? Who lives here?!” Jean shouted, and not a single thing in the forest stirred at his outburst, so quiet it was.  
  
Marco’s eyes broke contact with the shutters of the house, an unseen cold wind busying them to shake. Craning his neck down to nuzzle at Jean’s shoulder, he hummed calmly. “Don’t be rude, Jean. We are guests.” Marco spoke tightly. “Guests to WHOM?” Jean snarled back, though the maliciousness was directed to the forest shadows shirking about them.  
  
Before Marco could comfort the human who was not a child of the forest, the darkness came again in a drove of waves, washing away the cabin like a child’s sand castle swept at sea. In its wake, an echoing voice shook the boughs and rocks and upended the roots.  
  
“ _I I I I_ I live here _ere ere ere_!” Zoë spoke, making themselves a figure of powerful height and thin slenderness. Their black cloak swam into the heavens and dashed back down again across the ground, breaking into shadows and black apparitions of rivers.  
  
Startled, Jean grabbed a fistful of his beloved’s fur, Marco himself curbing his whine of fright into a terrified smile of politeness as the two of them stared up at the monstrous witch before them.  
  
Elevated like a black snake about to strike, the hair of the witch lapped about their head like serpent’s tongues. A wicked gleam pulled back their lips as they spoke, words almost sounding pleased and calming, but betrayed a sense of calamity to whom they addressed.  
  
“Thank you for being sensible enough to bring your lover, your majesty.” The Trickster crooned as they mockingly bowed.  
  
Marco made a clipped huff in his mouth, dreading to meet the astonished look he knew his prince was making. Chancing a flick of his gaze, Jean’s eyes met his and widened in their amazement.  
  
“You’re a prince?” Jean asked, amusement hinting in his voice that should have been fully enthralled with fright at the current circumstance. However, before the beast monarch could reply in the most humbling of terms that his station was thrice as elevated as that, a voice cut through the air like a switch of willow on the skin of both the monarchs.  
  
“Prince? Prince?! Why, he’s the King!” Zoë screeched, their laugher pealing through the forced silence that would surely drive less brave creatures to panic.  
  
Staring up at the creature who had a backdrop of black sky and veining leafless trees, Jean and the Wolf King next to him tremble, both taken aback by such unrestrained delight in one so playfully tricky.  
  
Spying the two royals huddling together like sheep separated from the flock, Zoë grinned with sharpened elongated teeth. “Sooooooo. One dance wasn’t enough, was it? SELFISH.” The witch screamed, swooping down from their height to appear before their very faces with a piercing bellowing pouring from their throat. Wincing, Marco flattened his muzzle against Jean’s back, Jean holding the overgrown beast with a crooked elbow to calm him.  
  
The witch had already shed most of their former physical humanity, face as shadowed in black with owl wide eyes, nose pointed like a beak to match. But it was their mouth, curled up like the ends of a cat’s claw, that added to the ghastly appeal that only a monster could ever own. It was that smile that seemed to shift and made Marco wary, more so because it seemed to glint like the crescent of a moon as its blinding whiteness stared at Jean.  
  
“Wolf King, might I borrow your mate for a moment?” Zoe chortled, bringing up a thinned hand ending in fingers that seemed to grow fast and knotted like blackberry brambles. Before a hand could draw near, before Jean could slash at the fingers with his pathetic steel, Marco forwent any shred of politeness masked in cowardice that he might once have had in this witch’s presence.  
  
Bounding in front of the prince, he broke open his jaws for a thunderous snarl that caused the witch to teeter back and forth like a giant fir tree swaying in a relentless wind. Looking at once as terrifying as his kin are likened to be, Marco curled back his lip to show the red of his mouth, fangs ready to latch and rip apart the first appendage the witch dared to lay upon either of them.  
  
Before Marco could let loose another warning growl, intending to make the witch shudder with humility, the same crow from before flew as swift as any hunter’s arrow in between the beasts. Letting its talons sink past its downy feathers, the blasted bird tried tirelessly to rip out the wolf’s transfixed eyes. Wings flapping as it cawed maddeningly, it pecked and bled Marco’s brows, the wolf rearing up to snatch the pesky little vermin between his teeth to end the creature’s life in one satisfying hold.  
  
Just before Marco could clamp his jaws shut around one swinging wing that was doing its best to blind his gaze, the bird stopped. Giving back one last screech of a noise, the black bird threw its wings forward and bounded into the trees, Marco foolishly chasing the little thing with a need for vengeance before he realized that the devilish creature was long gone.  
  
Skidding his feet back to the clearing, only a few paces away, he winced past a cut on his jowls, glancing wildly about to spot the figure of the prince, the witch, of anyone alive in the choking forest. There was none. “Jean?” Marco whispered, his voice breaking at the knowledge of his mistake.  
  
Swallowing a howl of anguish in his throat, Marco raised himself on his hind legs, panting into the air that smelled too damp and wet to catch a definite scent of the other.  
  
“ _Jean_?!” Marco barked out, the forest returning nothing favorable to the Wolf King, only deadened night air. Panic storming through his body, he tried again, this time practically screaming the other’s name through his wolfish fangs, the sound going far off into the forest where it seemed to settle, sinking into the mud that had once more than likely been graveyard dirt.  
  
“No, no no no,” Marco wailed. His head darted to every angle, hoping for a trace of tawny hair, he strained his ears for the witch’s cackle, of course he found none, there were no tracks to follow, there was no sign of life other than the Wolf King screaming his beloved’s name in pain. But the forest swallowed his cries, Jean was nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to hear what Hanji in the forest sounds like, check out this link Carsan did with their voice! http://havingafoodfightonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/98214702715/playing-around-with-my-voice-to-make-the-voice


	8. Of a Moons Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witchcraft: terms and conditions may apply.

Before Marco could shriek out another demand to be heard by the Prince, by the witch, by anyone in this fiendish forest, the crow from before swooped in low to the clearing, shadows like fingers under his feathers instead of plume. Making a move to flatten himself to the ground should the bird decide to try its luck at tearing one of the wolf’s ears off, Marco growled low in his throat with a noise akin to a rivers roaring. He was in no mood for another petty snapping fight, he had to find Jean.  
  
Panic storming through his body, he tried to call out to the other again, this time practically screaming the prince’s name through his wolfish fangs. The sound went far off into the forest where it seemed to settle and die, sinking into the mud that had once more than likely been graveyard dirt. Not even an echo of Marco’s voice could escape the thickets and brambles.  
  
“Stop yelling, you’re giving me a headache.”  
  
Walking on two legs instead of flying on his burnt black wings, Levi sneered as his form came into mortal being. Digging wolf fur out of his long nails that still appeared like talons, his delicate brows furrowed. “He’s fine, dog.” He drawled, rolling his eyes as Marco raised his haunches in a defensive stance.  
  
Not believing in the shape shifters reassurance, the wolf King bared his teeth, tongue curling over the broad whites of them in a wild display of warning. Levi shrugged pristinely.  
  
“He’s talking with Zoë. Striking some sort of deal. Making a pact. Mulling over conditions.” The other explained dryly, hardly any interest in the affair evident in his voice. “And now, I have to ask you the same questions being asked to the other. A cyclical deal, if you will.” He sighed, peering at Marco with disdain. “Oh, do please sit back down on your legs, dog. I will not swoop from underneath you to knock you down on your rear.” Levi huffed, pursing his lips tight and flat to keep his scowl from dipping any further down his face.  
  
Marco obeyed, though it pained his pride. Settling himself down in a squat, his only comfort was the very real fact that he was taller than the other by at least twice the bird man’s size even while sitting. Though he could not outrun him in flight, snapping his neck as a human would be just as satisfying as if he were in the form of a bird, even more so, the wolf King thought. His bones were probably just as light, just as hollow. Though, of course, there would be more blood filling his mouth than if he was breaking the neck of a fidgeting little fowl.  
  
“Wolf King. You love Prince Jean Kirschtein?” The blackbird asked, shaking Marco out of his consuming thoughts of vengeance.  
  
Marco breathed out a harsh exhale, stern eyes never leaving the darkened gaze of the other. “Yes,” He answered honestly.  
  
“Would you kill for him?” The crow asked again, never uncrossing his carefully placed arms. The Wolf King nodded his answer, licking over the front of his lips in a move of anger as Levi quirked an eyebrow, as if to test him. “Yes.” He finally said, feeling his nails elongate into the frosty soil that would have made him break out into a shiver if his rage hadn’t been keeping his blood hot and thrumming in his veins.  
  
“Die for him?” Levi asked, his eyes betraying his piqued own curiosity to the answer. Marco felt his teeth grind against each other till they ached. “Yes, all of those, yes. A thousand times, yes.” Not once did his voice shake or stir away from his conviction. Eyes imploringly gazing, Marco watched as Levi nodded his understanding, seeming to be mildly impressed, as if he could feel the weight of truth in the others pleading voice.  
  
“Could you move between two worlds for him?” Levi questioned lastly, unfurling his arms to clasp them behind his back as he balanced himself on the arch of his heels. Marco wished to balk, to quirk his head to the side like some great fool asked a question he could in no way even begin to comprehend.  
  
Pausing and wondering the implications of the query he began to wade through his memories of stealth that had become the backbone of his and Jeans relationship. In a way, that too was like living and swaying between worlds. The Forest, the Garden, the Dance Hall, and the Castle. They all seemed to be different places rooted in different worlds or times. Moments of being belly to the ground under hydrangea bushes, just to catch a glimpse of the prickly Prince. Days of waiting to escape the thrilling life of a wolf King who was preoccupied with entertaining little pups and bringing down weakening deer. Slipping through wrought iron gates that would now be even more tightened against him, all for a few hours to speak with his beloved, but never to hold him again in the ways he once had. Was that a life worth living?  
  
Memories casting a glimpse of Jean when Marco had first laid eyes upon him in the garden came to his mind. The wolf whined in the back of his throat, already tormented by his pining. The way the prince had looked, book in hand, a page on wolves opened for what seemed like hours for the readers viewing. The way he looked like when they promised to meet at the ball. The way he looked when they woke up beside each other in warm afternoon light. Marco dropped his gaze to the ground for a long time, mulling over those precious memories in his head. He let them flit around in his mind for what seemed like a very long time till they gave him courage. At last, he lifted his eyes to face the other.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Not bad.” Levi muttered huffily with a nod, a tinge of amusement in his voice that made Marcos eyes furrow in question over his once smoothed face of conviction. To gain the approval of one so sickly in manners was perhaps not the best thing to acquire, the wolf thought privately to himself.  
  
“I do have a bit of advice for you, now.” Levi hummed, almost genuinely thoughtful at the little tidbit he wished to bestow to the King. Marco himself was not so sure that such words once spoken into the agitated air would give him much hope nor ease, and yet he nodded his head once in assent. He would hear what the other had to say.  
  
“Beware those that are connected to the one you love, especially the mighty ruler of these lands around us.” Levi warned, his voice silently somber as he stared at Marco with almost dead eyes, so tired were they. Furrowing his face till his lips were curled to show pointed teeth, Marcos voice betrayed his confusion. “But I am the King of these woods, this track of land belongs to me, not to the kinsman of my beloved.” Human hands were greedy, but this was still his forest, still his domain, wasn’t it? The wolf wished desperately to put at ease the sickening toss of his stomach, but Levi’s thin lipped scowl was doing nothing to satisfy his hearts scared murmur.  
  
With one last glance, a wry smile trying to fight its way to the once troubled bird man’s lips, the shifter unclasped his hands from behind his back and raised his arms out and about the air. His feathers spiked out in all manner of directions as he wriggled and thinned his body into the small shape of a crow. Marco, mouth agape, watched the now-beast take off in flight, and a most hurried flight indeed by the way he soared and lurched upward again through the trees.  
  
Making a frustrated yip, Marco ran round the clearing, ears pricking back and forth to see if the forest that yawned more than breathed could give him a clue as to any creature’s whereabouts. His feet though, no matter how swift they carried him, could not bring him to any wooden frame, any crumbling foundation, nor any prince held captive.  
  
Trotting back to the middle of the clearing where the mud was the thickest, he stood and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long for the undisturbed silence of the forest to quake generously with a sound, as if a gurgling excitement could not be contained while the other thought in silence and clarity.  
  
Far off, through the fern and spruce, there was a very distant cackle. Eyes opening wide, Marco howled out Jeans name with a sudden desperation that even frightened him. It was as if a flea had bitten him coarsely and with much aggravation, causing him to yowl his distress. Voice hoarse and eyes wet with tears that he knew in this form he could not wring from his gaze, Marco whimpered out his agony in the form of the prince’s name, for there was little else to do.  
  
Stamping his paws against the earth in a swift charge, his ears were stuffed with the noise of squelching mud and quaking leaves, the forest now doing its villainous best to make any tremor of sound to block out the one he sought—the copse was playing a game with Marco, but the wolf was desperate to win. Grinding his teeth, Marco blinked his eyes hard, straightening his gaze to peer into the now warm darkness that stung of wet earth and trickery was he galloped. He could not smell and he could not hear, all that was left was his wolfish eyes to comb through the vines of the forest. He prayed they would not mislead him.  
  
Then, dark gaze catching something deep in the thicket, like a line of black against the sea of charcoal gray that was the woods, Marco saw him. For, there was no mistaking the shape that had become much too familiar to him these past months. It was a dearness to his eyes, a relief to his heart, and a hitch of a whimper in his throat that came out like a mighty roar.  
  
“Jean?!” The question was almost screamed, not awaiting an answer as Marco leaped towards the shape. He had not allowed himself any stealth, jumping over fallen logs and letting the thin blades of sapling branches slide against his hide. He let the deadened blackberry branches scrape handfuls of his fur, he let the cold air turn his breath hoarse, and he let mud clot at his feet, but he would not let the Enchanted Forest stop him from making haste to his love.  
What the wolf King did not hear, could not have heard with the wind wailing above as great as any wolf, with the branches tearing at his coat, with the trees groaning and creaking their troubles, was the sound of another set of foot prints. Sharp and yet slower than his, they were there all the same, picking their way through the forest with speed, like a nimble creature moving with determination on instinct.  
  
Snorting breath through his burning nose, Marco raced faster and faster, finding the muck colder on his hind legs, as if the thorns had ripped all his hair clean off. He clawed his hands forward only to find his nails cracking, breaking where they dove into the earth, leaving bluntness that startled the wolf King. With eyes wide he feared he should stop, collect himself and all that was crumbling. But the forest was carrying him too fast, as if he was not his own to will. Though his eyes were wild with fright and need, he plunged his feet back to the earth. He could not stop. Quick to stumble, he carried on.  
  
It was when he realized that he no longer was running like nature had intended he should, with four swift legs, but instead with two gangly naked brown ones, that his panic flared once again.  
Making a hopeless whimper, Marco blindly grabbed at the branches about him with his weak hands, eyes losing sight and fast. No longer could he see in front of him, no longer could he smell the air nor taste a scent on the cusp of the wind. He was helpless, a human lost in a rotting forest with legs badly bled. The worst being, he lamented, was that he could see the figure of his beloved no more.  
  
He was about to sink to his knees in the cold wet earth, to suck in air that his now feeble lungs thirsted for, when in a swooping rush, Marco was quite painfully flung to the ground. Hitting the damp dirt like a tree tripping over its own roots, Marco fell winded. Two pairs of very human legs began to tangle, as mysterious but never mistakable hands began to grasp frantically at Marco with a wild sort of tenderness.  
  
A mess of kisses peppered themselves along Marco’s neck, and in an instant he knew who had made their way to him. Though his nose was not his own, his eyes bleary against the night sky, and his hands clumsy, he knew this was his beloved and mate that held him.  
  
Snatching up the other in his arms, Marco buried his nose into the neck before him and cried, the sort of sob that made ones heart easily twinge with longing found. Jean echoed the cry just as eagerly, letting the notion that they would not part, not for anything, sink in.  
  
Though they began to whisper endearments that would make most eavesdroppers blush and coo, their hugs and kisses were abruptly put to an end by a hearty yell of “YAAAAAHOOOOOO,” the witch of the hour swinging downward with palms tight around branches in their clasp.  
  
Afraid to find the face from before, with long tendrils of shadow and steel bright teeth, Marco sighed with relief to see that Zoë looked the most human they have ever appeared, at least, in the Wolf Kings presence. However, their smile which was boisterously bright, still caused the couple to be wary.  
  
With broad human features of thick brows and almost normal eyes, the witch approached, dismounting from their treetop perch to settle their pointed feet into the ground with a grunt.  
  
“I don’t break the laws of nature for just nothing, you know.” They said cheerfully, smirking as they gazed at the tangled two on the floor.  
  
Jean, having thrown his small hunters cloak over Marco’s front, held the King fast and steady in his arms. He would not part with him now, the Prince had promised himself as much. It would take a whole cauldron of magic to separate them again, and even then Jean would continue fighting till he drew his last breath.  
  
Watching the Monarchs clutch at each other tightly, sprawled on the floor like filthy drunken peasants waking up in a hogs sty, Zoë hummed with a giddy gleam. Standing up straighter, in a most becoming and stately manner, they walked in tight half circles.  
  
Sitting up awkwardly, the two sprawled on the ground began to clamor to their feet on still shaking legs. Mud creased all about their palms and under their nails and leaves clumped in their hair to make them appear as ghoulish as monsters. Wilder, still, was the apprehension in their eyes.  
  
“Dear witch,” for though Jean had trouble biting the nastiness from his tongue, he wished not to offend the creature of trickery and power before him who could still promise more harm. “Please, explain what you have done, or what you will do.” As he encouraged, Zoë smirked and nodded their assent.  
  
“On the eve of every new month, you will both change forms, and as such, you will move seamlessly between two worlds.” They declared, still a bought of mischief in their eyes as they tapped their fine footed boots against rotten acorns and leaves. Waving their hands back in forth like a snake weeding through the grass, they giggled with each second the two royals seemed to be unnerved.  
  
Walking forward with a sense of gaiety that would belay a feeling of friendship between the three, but was farthest from the actual relation, Zoë bent forward to take a grip of Marco’s hair. Snarling with human teeth, the Wolf King jerked his black locks from the witch’s fingers. Jean, holding fast to his beloveds shoulder, flinched as another hand came to pinch the tip of his nose, as if in vain the Trickster wished it to be as long as a snout, set with row upon row of sharp teeth. Flicking the few plucked strands of the wolf Kings dark hair atop Jeans own, Zoe smirked.  
  
Without what seemed to be a moment to breathe, the witch spoke their meaning, allowing realization to wash over the very human-like ears of their audience. It didn’t wholly soothe them, but it wet their burning curiosity just the same.  
  
What had been decided and in turn etched in metaphysical stone by the witch themselves, was that there would be months of fur and months of flesh, months of claws and months of nails, months of hands and months of tails.  
  
In essence, and after much puzzlement on the two lover’s behalf, the truth had come to fruition. There would be months when they would both be wolves, and months when they would both be human, each form depending on the cessation of the month and the whim of the moon and winds. Nature was Zoë’s ultimate guide, and it was to the night sky that they set the conditions for the two’s transformations.  
  
The two had hardly time nor want to bicker upon these terms, for they had already been agreed upon, and so they grew quickly to feel fortunate that such a bargain had even been given to them. Though unusual, the turning of the month would allow them to always be together, even under the most strangest of circumstances. Night, Zoë had assured them, was the best time for transformations and the revelations of the heart. “It holds secrets best, better than the daytime—for everyone knows the sun is a tattle tale.” They winked.  
  
Straighten themselves up once more, the witch stood before the human prince with a careful gleam in their eye. “Jean. You understand what I have told you now, and before as well?” The witch asked, their voice as casual as stirring winds in spring, and yet it made Marcos ears perk and strain. Looking to his beloved who would not yet meet his eyes, Marco watched as Jean nodded his understanding slowly, stiffly. “...yes, of course.”  
  
Zoë seemed to take great pleasure in the others words, as they grinned, an odd flashing of teeth that felt like the crescent moon gleaming down upon them, so white was the smile.  
  
Nuzzling his Princes neck like he had want to do for the longest of times, Marco felt he should not let the oddity of those passing words strike his devotion cold. It was time to be thankful and happy, for Jean had him in his arms now. Worries abounded already, there was no need to make more. His beloved, too, smiled eagerly once more, helping his King up with hands strongly renewed with new vigor and mirth.  
  
After a nod of certain thanks and a feeling of ease about the forest finally, the two beings in love began to wobble back into the thicket where the witch was happy to assure that no matter what route they took, what tree they passed, and what dirt they trodden, they would find their home in pleasant time.  
  
Watching the two leave, leaning heavily on each other in weary embrace, Zoë and Levi stared off into the forest for a quiet second. Smiling softly Zoë turned and the two began to walk back up the creaking cabins steps that formed one after the other into the darkness. After the last step, dainty feet struck the rough wood of the porch and a straining groan from the wood gave into the air like had never happened before—the magic that had enchanted this place had always seemed solid, not pliant. Levi paused at the threshold of the small house to flick his gaze back once more to stare out into the woods. The crow man with many feathers was unsure if such a bearing of weight was an omen or not, of things to break or to merely bend like wood underfoot.  
  
With a chilled huff he grimaced, tired and slightly annoyed at the motion of peace and ease fighting to creep into his bones, to assure him that things were fine—would be fine. It was foreign and he felt it strongly, something good was forming, happening in the forest, but it’d take effort to bring it to fruit.  
  
He heard Zo filled the wind with laughter in an instant, a full strong chuckle to soften the air. They knew he felt it, and why shouldn’t he? He had been with them for a while now in this dreary heap of pine twigs and swamp.  
  
“I wanted those pesky hunters out of my forest, and now they will be banished to never cull and destroy it.” Zoë boasted gleefully, becoming more amused at Levis ungracious frown of confusion at their words.  
  
“I have given my blessing to a human and a wolf, one a Prince and one a King. One child to the flesh monsters who don themselves in sheep’s wool and have teeth as blunt as river pebbles, and one child to the wild wolves who wear fur as thick as grass in summer and who have claws as sharp as knives. With their union, my forest will have peace. The human will petition and the wolf will protect. Yes, that is how it will be.” Zoë clasped their hands softly, inhaling the thin cool air of the forest that swirled with a sighing shift of release.  
  
“You will not let the woods have quiet forever, though, of course.” Levi rolled his eyes, knowing Zoë had still a shock of tricks up their sleeves for tomorrows sure to come.  
  
Throwing back their head and cackling, Zoë walked inside the cabin without another word, misleading or truthful. Behind them, a frowning crow followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the like....massive Hiatus. Carsan and I are both college students with demanding workloads and we're just hahhhh time is not on our side. ANYWAY. We have the entire story now 99.9% finished (we just need to tidy up one more scene), so look forward to regular updates heeeeeck yeah!


	9. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What he wouldn't do, he'd do for him.

As soon as the two exhausted monarchs reached the Halls gate, muddied feet and hair soaked through with snow, Jean squeezed his fingers gently around Marco’s arm. Suddenly now very serious, frantic but firm, Jean breathed the cold air outside the garden. “I wish to tell my father...and my brothers as well, of our intended union.” Jean breathed, fingers moving to press themselves to Marco’s neck and shoulders in soft petting motions, as if to steady the human more than the wolf. Marco smiled softly, careful not to belay any sourness to his features at the thought of meeting men such as those. He was too happy in spirit to dwell on such foreboding thoughts, now that his beloved had remembered and accepted his proposal back in the garden.  
  
“Is that what Zoë wished of you?” Marco hummed, nuzzling the others cheek that soon felt cold, like the skin had been doused with rain and sleet. Pulling back with a worried whine in his throat, Marco made haste to apologize, for now Jeans eyes were startled wide.  
  
“No, no, Zoë merely was giving me advice for when I find myself a wolf.” Jean assured the other hastily. “You know, which hunting grounds are best, how to get rid of ticks and fleas in the pesky summer months, that sort of thing.” There was a crinkle at the prince’s eyes that was not entirely becoming of him, and that had Marco nodding slowly, confused beyond salvation. However, not wanting to cause a breech in these times now ringing with happiness, he smiled—though it was a little forced. “Alright then, meet your family I shall!” He laughed and though the sound almost caught in his throat, he was satisfied enough that it at least held a slight ring of true gaiety.  
  
“Such a union indeed, do you think they will be cross?” Marco thought out loud as they neared a hidden breach in the wrought iron. Letting Jean smooth his breath over Marco’s skin as the two leaned nearer to the fence, Marco felt calmness resurrect itself within his mind.  
  
Around them they could see as well as smell the clouds of smoke that blew from the wet logs hissing in a cauldrons fire. The light cast shadows along the garden, making the primrose tree look to be sporting severed heads instead of blushing fruit. The flames had no doubt been raised to scourge the palace looking for the recently run away prince. Jean sighed tightly, though there was a smile to his lips, however nervous.  
  
“Oh, but of course he will be cross, I am marrying the King of Wolves—all that my brothers can profess to wed are mere nobles, if they are lucky. They will never get a regal match like I have made!” Jean winked, a smirk on his lips as bright as any candles flame began to crowd over his once cautious features. “I have found myself such a worthy King to wed, indeed.” He chuckled, amused by such a stroke of fortune. Marco grinned with a timid blush as he grabbed at Jeans hands, holding them firm and warm in his as they stooped and loped through the mustiness of a dark garden past dusk.  
  
Jean tugged and pulled the two of them, in no time at all, through a silent barn soon overcrowded with noise. The work horses who slumbered with snoring breath promptly began to toss their heads frantically at the scent of a wolf. The goats locked in paddocks of straw and bale fretfully tried to leap over their wooden bars to catch a glimpse of the King of the Enchanted Forest as he passed.  
  
Jean, fretful that such noise would awake a nosey stable hand or two, tried to quiet the animals with cooing and even hissing, threatening to turn them into sausages, blood puddings, and racks of meat on spits. It was only when Marco, embarrassed beyond relief, though he knew Jean could not see the shifting color of red on his face in this darkness, made a kind dismissive motion with his hand. All the animals quieted, intent eyes with rectangular pupils still trained on the pair.  
  
After advancing through the barns threshold, Jean snatched an unwrapped saddle blanket from a stall’s door, as the short cloak could only cover the wolf so much. With a quick snap of his wrist Jean shook the fabric near to unravel, shaking off any dust that might have stuck stubbornly to the blanket. Wrapping it around Marco’s middle, Jean paused to admire the other. The wolf indeed needed no jewels nor ornaments to make his profile look that of a King.  
  
With trepid steps that sunk heavy into straw, clattered over stone, and finally descended wood, they made it to Jeans room safety enough. Thankfully, due to the early hours of the morning, the house was dim and quiet. While fires burned bright outside, the hearth fire in the kitchen was merely glowing with coals inside the grand Hall.  
  
Many of the warriors had been dispatched to the Enchanted Forest, and so it was a wonder—or perhaps more along the lines of magic—that the two lovers had not met the armed men clad in plated leather armor and wielding ax and net to ensnare the giant wolf whom they wrongly thought a threat.  
  
When the room was finally entered, both took to shivering. The room was cold, a fire not having been burning in the hearth for nearly a day, and so the two wobbled forth all stiffened in the gray of the morning. A cheerful fire was decided to do them both some good, and so the young prince set to work, hoping that the resulting smoke from the chimney would be mistaken for a maids handiwork at the hearth.  
  
Clasping his hands round a flint, Jean bent low to the fireplace crumpled with kindling. Setting a few strokes to stone, a spark ignited and a healthy tongue of fire breathed a creeping warmth into the room. After several tallow candles were lit and the door bolted shut with chain and nail, the two could see each other warmly by an orange glow.  
  
“Let us make haste.” Jean spoke with a rush, a bundle of nerves seizing him as he helped Marco out of the tangle of wool and stitching that was his makeshift tunic. The columns of smoke were now heartily creeping up through the brick and stone, and so they had to be quick indeed. Bending down before the other, Jean began to use the corners of the saddle blanket to scrub off the dried mud flecked at the wolf’s shins, his fingers vigorous at their work.  
  
There was no modesty in the wolf anymore, no shame in his naked form now that both he and Jean were on the best of terms. For this was the second time he had been in his lovers chambers, and he was sure that he would not exit it in a rush of regret and bitter sadness. This time, he gladly stood stark in the room, enjoying the warmth the fire at his back brought as he watched Jean now rummage through corded trunks and cedar boxes.  
  
After producing a heavy trunk decorated finely with carvings of boars and apple trees, Jean coaxed out a familiar swatch of clothing. It was slightly wrinkled from its time imprisoned in the wooden box, but it still retained its finery none the less. Airing it out with quick snaps of his wrist, Jean set the ivory tunic upon his bed, coupled with the breeches and earthen colored vest. He tugged loose the cravat and yanked out two dusky pairs of boots that Marco dreaded as he saw, lamenting how the leather confined his broad human feet.  
  
“You kept my clothes?” Marco asked, a shy sounding voice that belayed his gentle feelings of amazement. It was one thing to question how the clothes still existed, wreathed in magic as they were, and another to understand why the prince had even bothered to keep them. Marco was sure the other would have lit a grand fire to burn all his belongings and keepsakes that had been touched by the wolf, so cruel he thought his presence on the day he supposedly used and left him.  
  
“You think me a tortured lover, but I supposed I was more saddened on that day than angry.” Jean admitted, a weak smile of melancholy on his face that soon gave over to distraction as he helped the wolf don the clothing that he wore to the ball many weeks ago. If Marco had keener eyes like that of a natural wolf, he could have perhaps seen the clouding of sadness peak in Jeans eyes.  
  
“I vow to never leave you again.” Marco offered, so sure by the pact that it both startled and calmed them both. “I know.” Jean smirked, brittle as it was. They had had so much time that kept them apart, and to have the idea rushing forward that a life together was now coming to fruit, was a weighty thought indeed—one that lovers often must entertain and mull over.  
  
Once more aided by his prince, Marco shuffled his strong legs quietly into the open mouths of the breeches. Thumbing at the drawstrings with agitation, Jean soothed his clumsy fingers with his own careful touch. Leaning close to his lover, Jean himself tied the knots at the waist of the fabric till it was snug and would not give way to the heave and twist of the king’s waist.  
  
To aid in the outfit, Jean selected a belt to be fastened round breeches of sable. The leather switch was his own, encrusted with a scene of running deer worked in stitch intermediated with crosses fixed by amethyst stone. Marco was thus thoroughly dressed as richly as he had looked that night of grand splendor and heady fun. Lending him also his longest cloak, trimmed with black hare’s fur, Marco once more looked like a regal being. His black hair catching in the beams of the firelight and long legs tipped with black onyx colored boots heeled with the silver spurs of a gentleman, belayed such fineness that Jean himself felt breath catch in his throat at the realization that this man’s love had been gifted to him. It was as it had been that day long past, and both of them drunk in the sensation of ease that wrapped around their shoulders like the warmth of a fire lovingly stoked.  
  
“There, now you once more look the King you are.” Jean mumbled almost grumpily, tongue tied for a few seconds as he helped the other adjust the ties on his cloak. The wolf could only smile, amused and pleased all the same as the others fingers strayed much too close for innocence to the skin at Marco’s throat. However, this King surely did not have a dance to look forward to this day, but instead a duty to his beloved in the form of a proposal of betrothal.  
  
“We will gain permission to love—one cannot look upon us and in the same gaze dash all our hopes.” His voice, sure and settled, caused Jeans own lips to pull into a wry smile.  
  
“If anyone—father, brother, or code of the land tries to sever the tie we made in the forest, I’d surely fight them with my dagger than say goodbye to you.” Was the prince’s reply, sounding learnt from the heart, as if he had been carefully ripping apart any conditions that might belay their happiness in his mind. For, the both of them knew that while they had been sanctioned in the Enchanted Forest, it was now the humans turn to cast judgment.  
  
Of course, it would be pleasant to have both worlds bless their intended union. To have both kingdoms to call home, would be a splendid thing indeed. To pass the winter and fall months within the confines of a small castle lit by cast iron cauldrons burning with pine, to see fattened pups from their kin lapping at cow’s milk, to provide shelter for the wolves within human walls. To pass the spring and summer months in the cool dark forest, where blackberry and white pear blossoms burst into the world, where rain and heat could not siege the quietness of a wolfs den. The two lovers were greedy in love enough to hope they could have both, as the grand witch stated—to live in two worlds.  
  
Marco watched the glow of excited nerves in his beloved’s eyes and returned it tenfold with his own gaze of uneasy exhilaration. The dooming shadow of meeting the prince’s father and no doubt his siblings, could cast a darkened shade on even the brightest of a lovers heart. To be severed from one families tie was an unbearable thought to Marco, his entire life until this point having depended on the love and connection that a good pack could gift. However, looking into Jeans eyes as they led each other from the cozy room, Marco grappled and anchored himself to thoughts of assuredness. His lover looked distraught around the eyes, but his manner of holding himself high, squeezing Marcos fingers through his own, did much to displace any outward fears.  
Marco was proud of him, knowing that this was more than likely especially hard for the human.  
  
The worst could come, and there still would be enough joy in this moment to swallow it, like how a great sun once lit above the horizon swallows up all the darkness in the world with starved hunger. The joy Marco felt in his heart was plenty, and he knew it would last for as long as he lived—regardless of what happened on this day.  
  
However, this predicament, thanks to the unusualness of the Enchanted Forests creatures, had become tricky. For all his familial relations knew, the Prince had been spirited away by a wolf, either to be eaten or misled into something fantastic, like giving the forest beast his soul and life. To tell them, then, that instead their son and brother had merely been aided by the forests witch and had a mind to be married to a King of Wolves, didn’t seem any less fantastic.  
  
The twos comfort, then, was to hold each other’s hands as they paced from hallway to hallway, along walls that whispered at tapestry and burning torches that scorched the stone in their flickering. Fingernails biting wrists and palms, they took quick strides to the throne room, lest a handmaiden or squire catch sight of them and shout out an alarm, for fugitives they might as well be.  
  
In a few moments they would take audience with the ruler of the small, though nevertheless grand, Kingdom. Marco hesitated slightly in his step, leaning heavily on Jean as the prince led the way through familiar rooms and walkways, as if he was physically wearied. The thought of meeting a man who he already scorned, who he knew had placed orders to hang him dead by his paws, who loathed the creeping forest with a heart only a greedy human could possess—it was a terrifying thought that sent the non-existent hackles on the King to rise. Would this man even believe that he was a King in his own right? No more had he his coarse dark fur, his speckled muzzle and fierce eyes that was as good as any proof of a crown to other wolves. Instead, though handsome in face, he had perhaps lost everything wolf about him except his mind in this guise of skin that would be his on the occasion of every other shifting moon.  
  
As Jean began to whisper words of advice in a tone peaked with warning, Marcos thoughts were already treading into ideas of predicament. How was he to prove himself worthy to be with Jean? Would they both be shunned, would this man take one look at him and call for his head to be severed from his body—think him the kidnapper of Jean when instead he was the helper, the lover, the betrothed? It was a tale that had many bleak outcomes, and Marco found himself cautious with every new step they took.  
  
Unable to cease these meddling thoughts the wolf took to biting his bottom lip sharply. Unfortunately for the both of them, the brothers too would also be a part of the audience, and as such Jean advised his love to be assertive with them, for they liked bravado and disliked politeness. It was the last bit of fair advice he could give to his beloved, for already they were approaching a draped of many thick curtains drawn in against each other with rope. Jean held his breath, gripping his King’s shoulder as he straightened himself into the posture of the Prince he was, one of stubbornness and brashness. With Marco’s cautious gentleness and his own thirst for his voice to be heard, he knew they were as well as any to attempt to achieve their task of matrimony.  
  
However, facing the door that was now made visible by tugging the curtains back, Marco startled. Jean himself watched Marco frown with his black thick eyebrows as he stared with bewilderment at their heavy brass and wood frames, so uninviting, like teeth gnashed to the gums.  
  
Tugging at the crook of Marco’s elbow, Jean grabbed at yet another corded latch of rope that was used to yank the doors open, like some beasts great jaws being wrenched apart by tugging on its whisker. Feeling skittish, Marco swallowed tightly in his throat and bade himself not to whine like a pup. Marco thanked the spirits of the Forest that his beloved was strong enough to cleave the door for he himself felt he had no sooner lost the strength.  
  
“In here he waits.” Jean turned his gaze to Marcos’ hardened eyes. Leaning up on his toes, the Prince with the stubborn brow nosed at the forehead of the tense wolf. Placing a soft kiss along the creases of freckled skin that had wrinkled in their nervousness, he pulled away gently. Marco hummed as he did, winding his arm round Jeans waist, the Prince doing the same. Without letting his heart tremor in a single beat, Marco sighed with a motion of finality, nodding and watching the other curl his hand back to his chest, pulling the door with a silence that Marco wished would erupt into noise.  
  
With little difficulty, it soon slid from the princes grasp, leaving Jean quite stunned as he pitched forward as if the rope was a snake that leapt from his hands, Marco catching him backward with his arms. The doors had been wrought open—not by those on the outside of the grand hall, but by one on the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Nick here! I've decided that the chapters will be released 2-3 days apart, so be on the look out for them! c:


	10. Greetings and Misgivings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf, meet the family. Family, meet the depths of your nightmares.

Standing bewildered, gray eyed and fiercely awake, was one of the prince’s brothers. Leaning back, the curled slip of rope in his hands taunt, he stood in his armor of cow hide and metal coil, only the rich cloth of orange peaking from his sleeves belayed any resemblance to his rank.  
  
Eyes unfolding and a mouth unfurling, the brother yanked back the door more firmly, before tugging Jean to him with a one armed hug that one would expect a bear to give her young. Marco could hear the breath being squeezed out of the younger brother, his hands gnarled into the leather ties at his kinsmen’s armor before he begged for mercy from the affection he was relentlessly receiving.  
  
Biting sharply at the inside of his cheek, Marco tapped the brother’s shoulder slightly, with all the politeness he could muster. The brother, surprised by the gentle touch, stirred his grip on his kin, allowing him to slump back with a sense of bewilderment. With a motion of thanks, Jean leaned back against Marco, catching his breath as the brother looked to and fro at them both with a quirked eye of joy. Letting go of the rope, the door slid shut softly, as if a ghost had closed it with its breath.  
  
“Brother, that you have come back to us, and unharmed is seems, was a thought I never entertained, but I am so glad it appears to be true!” The brother whispered furiously, leaning closer than ever to Jean, crowding the entrance to the door with his slim but tall frame.  
  
Marco immediately smarted at hearing such words of lacking faith this whelp had in the prince, his own brother. Grinding his teeth to curb his temper that had been roused by this man already, Marco winced when the brother with the fogged colored eyes finally began to pull them along with a quickness of touch. Able to finally put his wolfish tendencies to good use, Marco took a discreet whiff of the room, smelling the brother who reeked of bathwater gone brown and horse shit sticking to the bottom of his boots. The spiced scent of a fire was ripe around the room as well, entreating the space to warm life. That, and another scent, another humans, was clinging stubbornly along the walls, like a permanent fixture. Before Marco could attempted to peek over the other prince’s shoulder to see with his own eyes who else was deep in the room’s alcove, the brother spoke. His voice was hushed still, as he breathed out his words.  
  
Fingers pinching like the incessant grabbing of a crabs claws, he pulled his little brother again to him, whispering thanks and joyous little laughs into his brother’s ear at his return. Marco watched as Jean himself was frowning more and more at the ceaseless church mouse chatter the other was filling his ear with.  
  
Marco caught the whispers, now ignored as he was before the threshold, and they made his face burn with contempt that could only be cooled by the glances pleading for mercy that Jean sent his way. All the brother could speak upon was his believing the prince to be too incompetent to get back to the bosom of his family and that instead the two brothers would have to deal with the fact that their littlest relative had been eaten! Gobbled up like lamb by the jaws of a hungry wolf. At this, Marco stiffened, shifting in his boots. To think, that these fiends would think such things of him and his clan! It was an outrage!  
  
Noticing that the two men whom the brother had been shepherding down the hallway to a single empty throne room had paused in their wake, he turned. His eyes, as if they were seeing Marco for the first time, gazed at him with fire, though there was little warmth in those sallow irises. It was instead haughty and malicious, like the flame that burns whole forests down, and it made Marco grow to hatred.  
  
“Ah, yes. You. I assume I have you to thank for returning this little one from the maw of the foul beast? Tell us, did you down him? Is the wolf slain? You shall be rewarded handsomely for this, of course, regardless—so do not feel shame if your sword did not stab the foul menace.” The Princes words were drummed so fast from his throat, like shallow breaths ghosting over Marco, that the wolf had hardly the recollection to calm himself from their meaning.  
  
Seeing that his beloved was ensnared in a most foul emotion—anger—Jean turned to his brother. Catching him fully in the face with his stare, he spoke.  
  
“Brother,” Jean started, his thinned eyes steady on the elder. At this softened phrase, the haughtier brother calmed his words and stilled his walking, turning on sharp foot. Biding Jean to continue, he widened his eyes expectantly, the need for motion and haste still apparent in the bending of his elbows and the bouncing of his heels, as if to say get on with it! To Marco, he looked like a fidgety hen on a cold egg.  
  
Clearing his own throat and feeling more unwelcome by the second, Marco licked his lips and smiled tightly, as if a bridles bit was latched at his lips. Smile pulled taunt and fake, Marco clamored to remain calm and fearless.  
  
“Nay, the wolf lives, most definitely.” Marco answered, watching as the brother pouted childlike, the scruff from his beard on his face making him look more foolish than his words ever could. “That is a terrible loss, for I know father had very much wanted to skin the animal and lay its fur before his throne.” He sighed, Jean instantly making a grab at Marco’s forearm at the words spoken in the warm chamber. Fingers squeezing tightly, Marco inhaled through his nostrils, stone harden eyes never blinking.   
“A pity indeed, my lord.” He exhaled, the brother nodding in agreement most readily.  
  
“And where is father?” Jean asked, once again stepping forward and letting his elder lead him to a throne on a dais. The chair itself was made of oiled wood, the backing Marco could discern draped in woven linens with colorful motifs trimmed in the textile. It was not as large as Marco had assumed a human would want for a seat—though this was a small kingdom, and fineries could not be expended every which way, it seemed.  
  
Still whispering, but with a voice grating on urgency, the brother bent to Jeans cheek to murmur with little curbed excitement. Marco himself strained his inhibited ears to the turned chair, noticing the slugging heart beat and faint sound of breathing.  
  
“I am afraid last night has exhausted him in his state of waiting for you—he sleeps now on his throne. I tried to pull the curtains over the windows, but he would not hear of it. He said he wished to watch the sloping lawns in case you would return.” The brother smirked, his once calculated eyes seemed to mimic embers of joviality and ease.  
  
“It will be a fine moment of relief once father sees you are in one piece. I will escort you to him, immediately, younger brother.” The elder grabbed his younger brother’s shoulder tightly, pushing him ahead of him and away from Marco. Jean grimaced and paled, seeming to dread rejoining his father now that the time had come.  
  
“Sir,” Marco called softly after Jeans brother, arching his arm to make a grab at his beloved’s sleeve, to connect them still. His Prince halted, standing taller than he had before, or perhaps it was a trick of Marco’s mind, and instead Jean had just grown an air about him that breathed dominance. Turning his head round, the simpering brother shook his head and frowned, as if mentally chastising this freckled face stranger from interrupting the brother’s reunion further.  
  
“Aye, aye sir—you shall get your reward of thanks soon. I shall call a page to lead you to a warm hearth where you can wait in comfort. Once this matter is done with my brother and father, you shall break bread with us at breakfast, I hope.” The words stung of forced cordiality, spoken through clenched teeth as they were. Marco licked his lips in annoyance and huffed. “I am no simple rescuer,” he snarled, offended at being continually labeled a human and not the official title he had always enjoyed. He could not wait till this pest of a Prince learned that he was indeed in the presence of a King.  
  
Jean laughed suddenly, a startled sound that erupted into the stone worked hall. “Please, brother, this man has saved my life, treat him affectionately. He wishes to come with me to see father. He has an important question to ask of him.” Jean lightly patted Marco’s shoulder, anything more comforting would surely assault the brother’s eyes with such a display. He didn’t need to give his ass of a brother another reason to seethe. Although it was nothing more than a hands brush, it soothed Marco to quietness, his breathing a low hum.  
  
At the younger Prince’s words, spoken with such strict insistence in the unusually quiet chambers, the monarch who was placed at his throne began to stir and turn behind him too peer at those that had made such a commotion of his sleep. Marco could hear him licking his parched lips as he raised his hand and felt around his lap for the curves of his robes, pressing them tighter to his body as if staving off a chill. Once that was settled and his fingers sunken into the warmth of the clothes, he opened his eyes with what seemed to be words on his tongue—but soon they caught in his throat. Marco was stunned to find the fathers eyes staring at him, instead of his lost son. It unnerved him to the core to have that old man’s gaze firmly and unpleasantly fixed upon him.  
  
Before the father could even speak with neck straining over his shoulders, his eldest son threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Father, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost—and you very well might have! But, here he is, alive and well.” The brother chuckled, grabbing Jean forward for their father to see. Marco himself witnessed the way the other Prince shied. Instantly he lowered his eyes and bit his lip down till it burst white and pink in spasms of his worried chewing. “Father.” He spoke in greeting, and Marco felt the stiffness in the air unbendable.  
  
“I see that while I slept you did not die.” Eyes now firmly on his youngest son, the human King spoke. His voice was as wistful as a sigh, and Marco himself could not tell if the King was relieved or distraught at seeing his child before him. Jean himself fidgeted, his back which was once bent to receive his father now straightened. As if he was an unbreakable staff thrust into the earth, he remained in his stance with little further attention to his father. Flicking his almond-flesh colored eyes to Marco, he inhaled sharply. So, this was the King.  
  
Unable to restrain himself from taking a discreet sniff, for old habits sake, Marco could smell the life in his soon to be father-in-law. His blood was strongly coursing as he sat up in his chair with another settled sigh, gushing with vigor now that he was awake. The blood sounded so frantic, barely controlled, as if the King himself was panicked—his calm pale face, however, belayed no such emotions.  
  
Distraught and puzzled, Marco took in his full face and found nothing but strength in demeanor. Eyes that Marco had expected to be sallow and sunken in with age were instead bright and youthful. His chestnut colored hair that Marco realized Jean must have inherited in some places atop his own head was still bright, though wired and fizzled around his ears like a brooms bristle. Atop his head he wore a simple crown, the metal rim hanging almost past his eyebrows, having crept over his temple as he slept. The King as well, Marco noticed, had taken the time to stare at the wolf before his eyes wandered back to the sun streaked window pane overlooking the fields of his kingdom just touched by mornings glow.  
  
“Brother,” Jean spoke, eyes neglecting to even roam his father’s face again. Looking back to the three men in the throne room, the eldest brother pursed his lips. Along the sloping lawn Marco could see what had caught his attention—another man, probably the other brother, was riding atop a trotting beast. A hunting party unsuccessful—dragging empty nets behind their horse’s feet. Marco inwardly smiled, knowing they would never fell the wolf they sought.  
  
“Yes, Jean?” The older murmured, his eyes saddened as he mulled over the prospect of another thwarted attempt to ensnare the wolf he so despised, not knowing he was in his very midst at this moment. Placing his palm along the peaked point of their father’s throne, Jean leveled his brother with a forceful stare. It made Marco himself blush with its intent, as if Jean had somehow collected an air of a proud and deserving ruler. It made the brother tighten his frown, probably detecting a hint of insolence from the younger’s stance.  
  
“I bade you leave.”  
  
Licking the top of his lip and shifting his weight upon his toes and then to his heels, the eldest brother grinned though with little mercy of mirth. “Your time in the woods must have made you bolder, brother.” He hummed, not taking the advised order lightly.  
  
“Apologies, I could have said that wiser, I suppose.” Jean hummed, but did not bow as was custom of an actual sincere motion of regret. This, the brother noticed most definitely.  
  
“What I meant to say, was that I bade you to leave so that my conversation with father will not bore you. Instead, I believe our other brother could use some help with his dispelled spirits, for I highly doubt even he could subdue the wolf that ran off with me.” Jean spoke with imploring eyes, though a smirk was fighting to settle at his mouth.  
  
Turning to Marco with mischief filled eyes only for his own gaze to see, Jean hummed. “The wolf was rather powerful, was he not? I do not think even my skilled brothers could maim a single hair atop his head.” At that, Marco nodded sheepishly, his eyes fixated on the floor to keep the glimmer in them from being known.  
  
Finding this needlessly insulting, the brother chewed his lower lip, having half a mind to cuff his younger brother upside the head. “I believe I shall take my leave then, and relay all that has been said to our brother.” He stated, and threatened, giving Jean a grim pout that would have sent the younger to huff with ire a day ago, but now only was able to amuse him to chuckle.  
  
Marco himself shuffled closer to his Prince, his quiet face nevertheless expectant. As the two lovers quieted their smiles, they stared at the brother who had his feet fixed to the floor out of shameful disbelief. To have both pair of eyes on him seemed enough to reproach him, and so with a final huff he began to walk away with heavy footsteps that boomed with his displeasure.  
  
As he turned on his heel to exit the doorway, the neglected King snorted, finding it hilarious that the youngest had succeeded in chasing out the older.  
  
“My God, what happen to you in that blasted swamp, my son?! The cheek that you now speak with!” He rumbled in his throat, the sound very much like a deep rattling that made Marco wince as it echoed. Like stones bouncing off of bones. Jean merely stood still. Standing at his father’s right, he would go no closer, as if only the bound pain of familial relation kept him in the same room.  
  
“Are you not glad to see me alive, father?” Jean seemed to prickle, becoming as thorny as a thistle flower. Marco himself danced his long fingers along the wrist of the other, as if a calming touch would cease the others flaring nostril and watering eyes. To have to ask such a question of a relative, of someone with the same blood, it must be torturous. Marco too, felt with earnest that Jean also knew the answer to his stiff lipped question.  
  
“Nay, I had half a mind to hope you’d run away of your own free will long ago. Oh, but don’t look at me like that, boy! I did not wish you dead, merely away! You have a thirst for lone adventure, not for kingship, this I know. I had a fleeting thought that a wolf dragging you into the forest might be enough to sever you in totality.” The father sighed, seeming more tired now that his son had returned to him in one piece. Almost as if his precious hopes had been dashed away like a wooden raft upon an ocean beach. It was a disgusting show and it maddened Marco intensely.  
  
“How can you—” Marco stepped forward, baring whitened teeth still as fierce as any dragons tooth. Jean pressed his hand firmly to his beloved’s chest, turning his head slightly, like that of a waning moon, to motion that everything was alright. Or, at least it would be in due time. Jeans eyes himself were still irritable, the thinness of them like a deadened glare. Marco only wished to ease the pain out of those eyes.  
  
“And who might you be?” The King quirked his chin upward, his crooning voice making Marco gnash his teeth, still offended by the simple cruelty of this family. Were all humans like this? Did the ties of family not swim in the blood, or even in the mutual kindness of hearts? In all that Marco had seen of the fleshy beasts, Jean seemed to be the only kind one—and even then he had a smart mouth and sharp tongue that could wound even the strongest of hearts.  
  
“He is someone very dear to me.” Jean answered, faithfully stilling any nervous twitch of his shoulder or childish smile that tried to come over him. He curved his bottom lip to whitening with the bite of his teeth, content to be resolved in his vague confession.  
  
The old man who was slumped in the chair then roamed his gaze back to the scenery the window could give, already bored by those left in his presence. By now sparrows were flicking their wings about as they dove for spiders coiled in their webs along the window panes.  
  
“Of course you think fondly of him.” The King murmured about the brown faced man in his throne room. “Is he the one that rescued you from that monster?” He asked, though from his tone Marco was not entirely sure that he cared for the answer.  
  
“There was no beast to be rescued from, father.” Jean murmured, curling his hand downward and behind his back to grab at Marco’s own. With his cold fingers he gave the wolves palm a squeeze, Marco making a pleased noise in the back of his throat that seemed to calm them both.  
  
“Hah! My goodness boy, did you hit your head on a rock as you were dragged by its jowls?!” The King bellowed, leaving Marco and Jean to both simmer with quick anger, though Marco’s tenseness passed just as fast as it came. Focused on Jean, he placed his palm at the small of the others back, feeling the muscles jump at the touch and then relax. Jean leaned into the feeling, replacing his grimace with a wearied frown.  
  
“Old man, since you don’t seem to care what actually happened, I shall not waste my breath narrating a saga for you. I wish instead to have a question put forth and motion made. After I have received a favorable response, I’ll not bother you a moments more.” Jean creased his brows, the pout on his face more scolding than pitiful. With another snort of laughter, the old King turned to his son and the dark handsome man next to him.  
  
“A vipers tongue I knew you well to have, but today your words are even more scalding and unbearable.” The human King guffawed, bringing his palm to his mouth and laughing into it. Finally, seeming to compose himself, he reclined back into his seat with a few more coughs of amusement. “Alright.” He hummed, and with that, Jean turned to Marco expectantly.  
  
“I...I am to ask him?!” Marco at once yelped, his eyes widened as he stared at Jeans own gaze. Smiling tightly, though the fondness was still there, Jean nudged him with his shoulder, giving his hand a good squeeze to calm the other—it didn’t.  
  
Swallowing his breath and almost his tongue, Marco cleared his throat and made a half circles turn to face the King before him. Feeling his human skin tingle and pearl with sweat at the nape of his neck—a very odd sensation that Marco knew would be one of this bodies greatest displeasures—he settled his breath.  
  
“Sir,” for though Marco very well hated this man he could not curb his naturally polite tongue, “I wish to wed your son, Jean. I only ask your blessing for such an engagement and nothing more.” Marco stated, leaving no room for mistake nor error. His voice was soft and sincere, if a little warbled from his nerves. It caused Jeans breath to hitch in his throat nevertheless, a sound that enticed Marcos heart to jump with excitement. There, he had said it with all the unbridled nerves of joy that he could muster.  
  
The King side eyed the other man, swallowing deeply in his throat with a few clicks of his tongue. Seeming to look unimpressed, he breathed heavily and made an attempt at a smile—it was grim.  
  
“Do you know why I could think of nothing awful about the prospect of you being dragged in the woods due to the hunger of a wolf?” The German King asked, Marcos own black brows knitting together as he turned his gaze to Jean. The Prince seemed to deflate, his thinned shoulders sinking like the pull of archers bow, his once fierce eyes glazed with a sudden brightness of pain. Of tears. Jean gnashed his teeth together in a flash of pitied bravado.  
  
“I do not wish to know. Instead, I demand you, answer this man’s question.” Jean urged, his voice not yet brittle but not as sure as Marco knew it could be. The wolf knew the Prince had come to see this moment as a time of truth, for his wishes to be granted or ground into the dust. Marco was not so sure why the need for permission to marry was so great—in fact, as of having their love mutually known together and equally received, they were already mated. A wedding was not needed, in the eyes of the wolf. Though, if it was what his beloved wished for, Marco would attempt to receive this hard-found blessing.  
  
Pursing his lips, in a gesture that Marco found the eldest brother made as well, the King narrowed his eyes. Gaze transfixed on a few more sparrows that had taken to peck at the stained glass, the King watched the little birds hop from the windowsill, behind shards of orange, indigo, and emerald.  
  
“You can’t have any guess as to why, dear son, such a trouble it is to keep you. I am not of the opinion that anyone advantageous would choose to wed you. Not only are you the youngest and therefore the most troubling to pair, but you have an unnatural way about you that is most undesirable in a partner.” The King breathed, and it was with those words that Marco clenched his fists at his side, making Jeans fingers which were entrapped in his own flinch.  
  
Opening his mouth to make a quick snarl of indignation at such words being spoken, the King with the bright eyes continued. Raising himself in his seat to fully face the two, he bellowed in anger his next words.  
  
“I have been plagued by the greed of lesser Kings and Chieftains in this land, I have had to fight famine and battles a plenty before I even sired my second son. I have had to stare at that gnarled God forsaken forest that haunts me even in my sleep, knowing that the creatures in their wished to sup on my flesh and drink of my blood!” The King roared, and the two before him cowered from the others voice as if it had physically hit them with blows.  
  
“You, young cur, know nothing of what I have done to maintain even the smallest track of my land! To be a King is to be devastated, and to be a King with a stubborn leech of a son is the worst blight of all. Now, instead of leaving my sight forever like I wish you had with that monstrous creature, that no doubt that wicked witch hath sent to torment me and my people, you have the audacity to wish to be wed?! Wed to a man that I do not know, no less!” The King breathed fire and his voice was stinging as it blared over the twos faces. Marco could not stop himself from feeling the tremor Jean made, the shaking of his body like a rattling cage trying to contain all the anger the other had boiling inside him. For his Princes eyes were not wet with sadness but with anger and an unfurling hatred. Something that the King had said in his rage hit Jean hard, like an iron tipped arrow piercing the softness of his gut. It pained the Wolf King so to see his beloved in such a state, but he feared that to speak out of turn again would only distress his lover more. Marco watched Jean exhale with a hiss as his father continued most brazenly.  
  
“If you wish to marry anyone that is less than a rich nobleman I will turn most vicious with my next remarks. I will not look favorably upon your future without so much as a coin nor a track of land in it. If this lecher at your side only wishes to marry you for the kingdom he believes will go to you when I die, he is a fool! If he thinks you will bear him sons, he is an even greater fool for I know your constitution! When I am dead in the ground I will not see this crown atop his head!” The King coughed, his voice finally turning raw. Jeans own face burned hot with rage the more his father spoke his ill-tempered concerns. “Your brothers are all marrying women of rich lineages that will secure them power and land. I know not this man’s face nor his station. He dresses finely enough, but for all I know he could be a gambler or a man indebted with sums.” The King propped his arm atop one of the chairs arms, his sleeve of heavy white wool folding like sheets of snow over his skin.  
  
Staring at Marco with an eye as hard as lead, he spoke violently. “So then, who are you? Have you come to woo my wide eyed son because of riches he will assume when I die? All that you will receive is this meager castle of stone and mortar, this boys hand in wedlock, and the foul forest to the East astride us that I warn you will be your ruin. Have you the stomach to deal with all these unhappy dooms already clouded over both your heads? Have you any wealth to bring to this match that could set my nerves at ease?” The Kings voice heaved as it rang in Marcos ear, fast and unpleasantly loud. Yet, still he stood firm, locking Jeans arm with his own in a motion of haste.  
  
“I have much to cast away the stormy clouds that you conjure for our happy wedded life. I have a heart that belongs to Jean, as well as my soul—” Marco began, the King scoffing with a roll of his eyes, already turning away.  
  
“I am not finished, sir!” Marco snapped, eyes fierce as they watched the Kings shoulders jump, his body turning slowly to face the pair again. Brows creased like the pages of a book long since left to rot on the shelf, the father of the Prince sat bent at the spine as he lent forward.  
  
When he now felt like he had the others attention, Marco squared his shoulders and lifted his head high. “I have a heart and soul that belongs to Jean, and when I am wedded to him, he shall share with me my kingdom as well.”  
  
Hugging his beloved to him, he lowered his gaze to Jeans, seeing the others previously sour face smooth over into a pleased look of triumph. Though his lover was still stiff in the face of his father, just feeling the warm fingers curling into his was enough to let Marco know that the other was entirely delighted and fortunate at his words.  
  
Watching the old man sputter for breath was one of the greatest joys Marco had laid eyes on. Clutching the chairs arms, the German man raised himself to crouch on the seat with great struggle, as if the words had lain a great toll on him. Still, though, that wicked smile returned.  
  
“Prove to me that you are a King, and I shall consent to this whole rouse of a marriage, I will even set my own crown atop my sons head so that he may already taste the future of his rule!” He laughed with a temper exasperated, for he truly did not believe that what the man before him stated with such conviction could ever be true. His voice stung of sarcasm, of no intention of doing as he just promised, and yet Marco’s wounded pride could not help but rise to the challenge.  
  
Marco chewed the inside of his cheek, his eyes flaring like coals as he rested his gaze on the top of the human Kings crown. He could slightly see his reflection in the buffered slacken yellow of the metal. He looked nothing like he once did, with eyes as sharp as a bird of prey, red gums that had teeth like thorns, and soft fur as thick as night. How he did yearn to see that band of brass reflect his self, the self that boasted strength and power. Then, he could make this human King cower.  
  
Curling his lip in a feigned attempt at concentration, he flicked his eyes to the heavy latched door that had been closed shut. Jeans brother had been kind enough to fasten it, the fool, and any guards that were at its post on the outside could not have heard the stinging shouts of their King. Though the temper and voice of the old man was wild, even his words could not carry over the slab of oak and welded metal that was the door. But perhaps…perhaps Marco wanted everyone to hear his fear.  
  
“Jean, my love, would you kindly do me this favor?” Marco asked, his eyes carefully calm as he kept his gaze on the King. He was sure that he had time enough to at least scare the wits of this human to pieces—if he was shaking with fear, he perhaps would be more compliant in letting Jean have what he wished, a sanctioned marriage. Marco had not yet realized just how important such an accomplished feat was to the other, but if he desired it, so it would be.  
  
The Prince made a slight nod, his nerves getting the better of him with each passing second. Marco himself braced one of his palms on the slight man’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Open the door for me, and keep it wide at the threshold.” He instructed with a gentle murmur, his fingers falling from the other’s shoulders as Jean walked stiffly to the door. With a little cursing and huffing, the rope was pulled taunt, Jean pressing the door firmly to the wall at its opposite, using his own body weight to keep the hefty wood at bay. Soon the other door was gaping as well, straining against the rope that Jean had tied to the wall latch, the bolts at the wood straining for release. The guards down a ways a way along the hallway only stirred their lances slightly, curiously. However, they would not so much as turn their nose to the side to take a peek, their orders of uniformity too great.  
  
As the door was wrenched open, the King had stood up from his seat, leaning on the curved slant of the chair with his palm. His robes shuffled and pooled about him like a grand river of white, drowning his legs in their finery. The old man still had a smile crafted with smugness and finality, his own stubbornness forbidding him to look upon his son and his fiancé with any gladness. Marco smirked silently to himself. He should like to see that withered face grow slack with shock.  
  
Bringing his fingers to his throat, Marco grabbed and tugged at the hastily placed cravat. Letting the ties fall to the floor, he began to wrench open his tunic collar. Taking a few swallows of deep breath till he felt his Adams-apple practically leap in his throat, he walked to the window with a tightness in his step.  
  
As he unlatched the beautiful pane, a thick mass of sparrows fled from their perch frantically. Marco watched them go with a few seconds of struggle, willing clarity to swim over him but not bury the urgency that he must now keep within him.  
  
Without so much as a stutter, he took one last breath for courage. Then, throwing his head back, _he howled_.


	11. A King Crowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, Surprises, and Surprised.

The noise almost shattered the glass around the wolfish King with its piercing vibrations. Like a winters wind sweeping through a mountains top, Marcos breath sliced the air. It started off with a guttered rumble that soon gave birth to a swooping yowl, the King’s new and very human vocal chords desperately trying to push the sound out with as much force as was possible.  
  
From his corner by the door Jean watched him, mouth agape and eyes widening with every second that that howling pierced his ears. He truly was in love with a creature of the forest, a mighty being who could simply lift his head and make the most animalistic part in every creature’s heart submit. Jean could feel his own legs shake, his breath coming out in rasping short draughts of air, as if he was becoming subdued right then and there. That, however, was when he heard the other noise clatter from the stairs.  
  
Like a soft undercurrent that suddenly began to roar as it got closer, Jean heard the pounding on the cold stone floor. A breath of wind rushed through the hall as tapestry poles and torch iron casts began to shake. Then, as if it was flooded, the hallway began to move.  
  
The hoard of hound dogs were bounding past the door with little to no care in the world, like a mass of horses set free. Excited yips and perked ears seemed to swim through the door like a floodgate letting loose its waters, each dog making a clatter as it ran. Jean himself was almost knocked to the ground by the leaping paws of the long legged beasts. Aside from the ring of rope around their necks that displayed them as the property of the royal family, some were even dragging leather leashes that had been broken or chewed at the end from where they were tied.  
  
Jean himself could even hear the groans and wails of the two trampled guards that had been stationed at the door, taken by surprise at the clamor of the hounds. The sound of tails thumping against the plated armor of each stationed watchman would have been amusing was it not for the sheer shock of so many hounds grappling about like a sea of fur.  
  
So eager were these beasts to enter that once they found themselves inside the throne room they all skittered and slipped about the polished floors, bumping and smacking into each other before they could calm down. That was when the real peculiars began.  
  
As each dog began to whine and snap their jowls once they all found themselves in the room, the great creatures began to shuffle and ease around each other till they all stood in a perfect ring around Marco and the human king’s throne. Like small soldiers set in place at the command of a general, each hound of wooly fur and long snout faced to the window that Marco had been howling at, the King of wolves seeming to forgo his want of air for a little longer as the noise from his throat had not yet been expelled. Sitting behind the standing man, Jeans own father was shrunken into his seat, clawing at the backing of it in a fit of shattered nerves. The dogs could only whine deep in their throats, excitable as ever as they listened to the last wisps of the noise.  
  
As the last of the shrill notes ceased, Marco set his palms firmly to the window sill, taking heaving breaths that ended in hacking coughs of spit. Raking air back into his lungs that felt like they had shriveled up, Marco wiped the sweat that beaded at his brows with the back of his shaky hand.  
  
Taking a moment to peer out the window, he trained his ears to the forest to the far west—for he could see the beautiful dark firs and the shaking birch trees limbs, could feel the mist of the forest floor on his face, could smell the freshly fallen snow that purified even the unsettled of ground. Far off in the distance, his gaze was set, waiting and hoping. It was with a flicker of movement upon the outskirts of the woods that he received a welcomed answer.  
  
Wolves, like vivid shadows easing out of the thicket of branches, shook the forest to its core with their racing movements. They were running back and forth along the Enchanted Forest, for past its encompassing brambles they would not venture. Marco was overjoyed to see hints of them with his eyes that seemed to search more readily than before. His hearing too, was better, as he could make out their whimpers and whines throughout the forest before the first of the kin made a sharp quick howl. It was Ymir, Marcos cousin and second in line of the royal blood. Along with her guttural growl he could make out the airy call of another she-wolf, no doubt Christa coming to join her call with her mates. As they howled, more joined the call, till frightened deer, unsure of what was happening, began to leap like thunder from the thickets. Birds of flight cawed frightfully as they swarmed the skies from their tree bough roosts. Marco watched this all with a great and beaming grin to his face.  
  
Turning round, quick on his heel with his excitement, his face made the King who was sunken to his chair groan his terror.  
  
Looking into the eyes of the man who had caused his fury, Marco could see his reflection as stark and bright as if he was looking into a mirror glass. Staring into his likeness, he could see what amazing change had come over him that made the old King babble and shake so. Marco’s eyes, once a gentle slab of brown, were now bright amber. A pit of black as deep as obsidian was his iris, the whites of his eyes completely gone, dashed away with the wolf’s call.  
  
Licking his lips that stung of the bitter cold, Marco walked heavily before the hounds that stood erect and patient. Not a tail wagged, not a muzzle was licked. All eyes were trained on this man that most had never seen in their life, but knew to obey.  
  
With a gentle hand, Marco let his fingers raise and then fall. At the wearied move, each gigantic dog bent its front legs and curved its head down, as graceful as any swan would tuck its head under its wing for want of rest. Like a chain of command they mimicked this movement, bowing with the utmost respect.  
  
Marco smiled, pleased and flattered beyond belief. Raising his head gently, he spied his beloved, still pressed against the door as if without the doors presence his legs would fail him and he would tumble to the floor. Nevertheless, when he met the other’s eyes that were still a wolfish hue, he laughed gaily, his lips wobbling into a grin of relief.  
  
Beckoning the Prince to him with open arms raised, Jean quickly slid from the propped door to stride past the curled tails of the dogs that had ceased to move—Jean was not even sure they were even breathing, probably holding their breath from all the anticipation as they let him pass through.  
  
After he found himself in the other’s arms again, he quitted his laughter in favor of having Marco nuzzle the tip of his nose against his cheek and neck, their hands curled against each other’s palms. Only the sound of creaking from a wooden throne and the sound of many foot falls against stone could break the momentary spell of their joy.  
  
As quick as the dogs had entered, so the men of arms came, led by the two elder brothers to the crown. Their faces were fierce, the movements even more so as they came armed to the teeth with halberds gleaming and swords already released from their hilts.  
  
The two brothers were the most brash, making quick work of discerning who the threatening foe was. By the fear in their fathers eyes they set their edged blades to Marco, their men about them dazed as they stared at the Wolf Kings eyes which still faintly glowed a golden hue like that of a harvest moon, his curled lip raised as he stared at the handful of guards that filled the room, plenty more crammed against the hallways should the others be fallen by deaths grasp.  
  
Jean too had taken up his dagger and brandished it as one would a mighty saber—this only made the elder brother bristle at the impertinence that his brother’s actions caused. To have a sword pointed at his own kinsman was such a bruising offense it even made Jean’s wrist quiver with the boldness of it, yet his face did not color red with shame. He held fast, inching on his heel to be before Marco in order to protect him should a spear or net be launched, for he did not put it past his brothers to be reckless with their commands of advancement.  
  
Making a move to pass by the dogs that began to stand with objection, a brother aimed a sharp kick at a hound’s swelled stomach. Instead of shying and making room for the man to pass with a whimper, the dog firmly caught a leather-clad ankle betwixt its teeth. Shaking its head wildly, the dog’s jaws clamped tight, the brother howling his pain as two guards swarm about him to aid in relieving the dog’s teeth from his leg by yanking at the scruff of the dog’s neck. At this, several more dogs began to rear up and snap with unfettered anger at the hands of those that had formally fed and trained them. Not even the threat of being clubbed by the end of spears made them humble—it was only when the King roared with a violent voice, mildly shaking with his fear, did the guardsmen to cease their infernal attacks.  
  
“Do not hit another one of those hounds! Can’t you see that they are still under this demons control, and I will not have him command them to shred us all to ribbons! See how they do his bidding! Be mindful, for he has them under a spell!” The King was frantic in his warning, and yet the men under his rule ceased their vexing prodding and thrashing of these growling beasts. The hounds were no worse for wear, though some of their gums had been darkened with the blood of those they had bit. Marco himself could not be prouder for their fierce loyalty, surprised that their distant relation as past kin could make them so willing to help the wolf King.  
  
With eyes still burning of fright, the King clenched his teeth to rouse his anger. Turning to the guardsmen who still had their hands wrapped around the hilts of their weapons, he met the eyes of his sons within the crowd. Watching as one limped and the other cupped his hands to the bleeding ankle wound, the King felt a spasm of speech come over him in urgency.  
  
“Curb your weapons and do not do anything foolish!” Their Lord advised, his tone warning as he watched the eyes of his two favorite sons grow wild with indignation. The King was too far gone in his fright, and no illumination to the situation would stay his anxiety.  
  
“You would have us lay our weapons low in front of this man, whom you yourself have called a demon?” The one who Marco had spoken to not but an hour ago hissed. Clearly thinking their father’s fear had made his will and resolve soft, the brother’s eyes were bright with exasperation.  
  
“Attack him not! He is as good as invincible if he was sent here by that foul witch. That secreting vermin of a sorcerer has cursed me longer than you both have been on this Earth! Nothing can thus bring this creature of theirs to his knees. It would be foolish to waste all out lives in such an attempt!” The father ground his teeth and spoke through such clenched jaws that his sons and guards were afraid the bones in his mouth would splinter like glass.  
  
Staring at Marco with a menacing gaze, the King reared his arm from its place previously buried in his robes and dragged his fingers over his chest. It was amusing to see him sign himself with a cross, and Marco was sure that he had now humbled the man, even if it was ever so slightly.  
  
“What kind of King are you?!” Came the next of vehement shouts from withered old lips. Eyes that had finally sunken in from too much disbelief, the Prince’s father shook a crooked finger over his neck this time, grabbing his fist over some relic or pendant. Humans were such silly creatures, thinking a chain of gold and a fleck of stone could spare them from the swiftness of retribution.  
  
Marco smiled triumphantly, pleasingly, baring his teeth as if they were fangs. “I am the King of wolves.”  
  
“You are a monster of the forest! Just like that witch was, so ye are!” The King shook his other fist astride him so that the robes at his wrists were flung to and fro in such a frenzy it made Marco smile smugly, though his interest was piqued by this old man’s words.  
  
Marco was ever so thankful that the creature that scared him and his kin worse than a nightmare also had the same effect on the humans as well, for the wolf knew that this Kings fear of Zoe the Trickster was working in his favor. Though he resented his soon-to-be father in law addressing him as some common demon from the depths of hell, he was glad that it seemed to stay his hand in murdering Marco with one swift command.  
  
It was the old man’s fear, though, that could reap safety for the wolf King and his beloved. Marco was not blind to the idea that while he could be a ferocious creature, he would in no way be able to defend himself and his Prince as he now appeared, in such tightly packed quarters against armed men who could let loose spears and ropes. Not even the loyal dogs at his command would be able to bite through plated body armor and fend against a lance’s draw.  
  
Still standing boldly, though it was a false sense of bravado leant to the fact that he seemed to still scare the King to shaking, Marco was surprised to hear a throat clearing behind him.  
  
“There are many powers over you old man, and soon there will be one more.” Jean suddenly spoke. His back was crushed to the window panes and the now early sun slanted outward to cast his hair in light. The snow falling at his back made him ethereal looking, like the golden angels along church walls that some of the humans were fond of painting.  
  
He looked beautiful to the wolf King, though Marco knew his hands were shaking and his blood was rushing rapidly from his face till it drained it pale as marble. He saw a desperation that was trying to be smothered with courage of heart, and for this Marco stilled any threats he wished to aim at the Prince’s father. The lands ruler, however, did nothing to curb his tongue.  
  
“The profaned manner of which you reproach me is vile! I shall not hear another word out of your traitorous mouth!” The King exclaimed, his voice huffing as if he was winded by a great gust. As his outrage began to grow, the hounds all hunched in their circle began to grow agitated, the guards and two Princes whom they kept at bay watching the humiliating King with either anguish or well-hidden delight. Marco too, was watching, though his eyes were trained on his beloved. Hands that quivered and a body wracked with tremors, Jean clenched his fists stiffly at his side to keep from recoiling.  
  
“You shall sit, listen, and obey!” Jean called out again with a hiss, his fingers grabbing tight at the hilt of his dagger, then sliding back to the wall as if he was ashamed he ever made a grab for the weapon once more. Eyes skittish, he furrowed his brows and Marco could see the abashment now on the Princes features. He was taken by cowardice once again. For the King, the act of Jean reaching for his dagger as if to lash out proved too much to bear. To have his youngest once more show his streak of boldness and ill-mannered temperament was infuriating.  
  
“You have stuck me with words now you wish to stick a blade in me as well, boy?” The father growled, aiming to wrestle himself from his chair to make a grab at Jean—for if he could not hurt the creature with the wolfish eyes, perhaps he could smother his sons willful disloyalty instead.  
  
Stepping quickly before the two, Marco bared his human teeth. Though blunt they were, they caused the King to be backed against his chair, this time with ears trained to listen to anything his son now demanded.  
  
Being humbled by the threat of violence from one he thought to be sent from a tormenting witch, the King flicked his eyes to his son. Though pestered he was with the others insolence, the wolf-like demon at his guard forced his tongue to his cheek. His youngest could say his worst and the Kings ears would be but forced to listen.  
  
When Jeans gaze did divert his fathers for a fast second, he felt a flash of heat choke him with embarrassment, his shirts collar sweating at his throat. Wishing to provide some leverage that Jean could take advantage, the dearly loyal wolfish King sent his meanest glare to the old man before him for good measure. For if Jean himself could not yet be cruel, perhaps Marco could. Checked with brevity, the human King quietened his taunting sneers and hums.  
  
Finding his voice finally amid the stress of the moment, Jean cleared his throat and faced his father again. With eyes that did not cower but shone instead with a brightness that only restless ire could bring forth, Jean stood straighter. With a countenance vaguely resonating of his rank, he began in a voice that could increasingly not be mistaken in its conviction.  
  
“I will have your crown.”  
  
All eye widened and all mouths fell to the command of those words. Marco’s own gaze was frigid with shock as he tried to smother a surprised exhale of breath. He knew his beloved had a mind put to marriage, but to conquer a kingdom as well? Even Marco had not been so adventurously ambitious to entertain the thought seriously. However, he stilled himself and watched the careful creasing and quaking of the old King’s face. He was cold eyed and hot faced, spitting out his words like scaly snakes venom.  
  
“You will not have it.”  
  
Jean never stirred in his anger, he held fast to it even though it was like a burning coal in his fisted palms. Curling his lip and showing sharp slight white teeth, he took a step closer to his father. Smiling, though there was little joy in the motion, his next words were quiet but insistent, like a gust of wind cutting sharp at the hollowed bone.  
  
“I will.” He spoke firmly, and all within the room, whether regretfully or not, could recognize the innate voice of a King.  
  
Squirming and practically frothing at the mouth, the father fretted. The son he had sired made no move to come closer to him to collect his bounty. Instead, a wolf of towering height and curbed teeth did his biding. He walked as if he was gliding, each stride powerful and menacing. He approached like a wolf.  
  
There being little else to do, the King soured his face at the beastly man who loomed. He had been bested by a petulant princely brat and a cheerily smiling monster from the mossy netherworld.  
  
Taking another step forward, Marco extended his arm towards his soon to be father-in-law. With a croaked yelp, the elderly man flinched, twisting his back further into the bony spine of the chair. His eyes stayed themselves, staring at Marco’s outreached hand. Nails blunt and harmless, Marco humbled himself with patience, knowing if he snatched the crown from the others head it might cause further aggression from those still loyal to the current holder of the crown. Either way, the King would be forced to give up his title, but it would perhaps be better if such an act was achieved through less violent means.  
  
Fingers taunt, Marco let his palm fall open expectantly, a soft smile that perhaps spoke of good will etched on his face even though he was itching to blot it out with a smirk of triumph when the old man relinquished his power. His eyes, of course, were still wild in their brightness.  
  
Swallowing tight in his throat, the King frowned to himself, his nostrils blazing slightly as he breathed shallow sighs. Worrying his yellowed teeth against his lip, he brushed his own palm over one of his scruffy cheeks. After catching the gleam in Marcos eye that betrayed something supernatural, something as wicked as the gaze of a witch, the King bruised his lips shut with a grimace. At his back, the dogs began to grow restless, feeling and wishing for the exchange of power. Seeming to reflect quietly, within a few seconds his shaking fingers climbed up his temple to slowly slide his crown from atop his head. The meanness of his lips never quite subsided though, even when he opened them. “It was a dying Kingdom, anyway. I hope you both die with it.” He cursed, and the two men before him did not so much as flinch at the unkind words.  
  
With little physical effort the King pressed into Marcos hands the circlet of brass. Taking it with a slow nod, Marco walked back to his beloved who gazed at him with firm eyes, as if composed, though Marco knew better. This crown was perhaps never meant for Jean, and thus to have it presented to the Prince in such a fashion was such an assault on Jeans senses that his nostrils flared even when his eyes were held steady. His fair brows knit, he blinked slowly. Only Marco himself could hear the hitch in the Princes—now Kings, voice as the crown was softly placed atop his light chestnut hair by the hands of his beloved. Perhaps, Marco thought, this was something Jean never expected in his life.  
  
At once, knees began to bend as if they were commanded by the pull of the tarnished metal. Guardsmen shuffled to make room as they bowed their heads, letting the sound of metal shift and clink as they submitted to fresh royal blood. The dogs humbled themselves to whine most joyously, panting with lolling tongues as pleased as ever.  
  
The brothers who had shared a cot with their littlest brother in youth, now scowled and hissed, refusing to bow, but not holding their heads up high. Power had transferred, and quickly at that—to show an obvious display of revolt against the new King would be audacious indeed. However, they still had pride, and as such chose to bite their tongues but not be graceful about keeping their silence, for their eyes glared daggers and their clenched fists bespoke of a wish to destroy and attack. It was only Marco’s fleeting glance that perturbed them to withstand the wickedness in their heart and submit.  
  
Feeling the sense of authority chill the air about them, Marco kept his smile warm as he turned to his beloved, Jeans eyes stiff set and his shoulders trembling as he seemed to reflect upon the weight at his head. Breathing shallowly, with awful pulses of anxiousness, the newly made King struggled to stand tall. It was only when his gaze fell upon a framing of dark black hair that had become bent like all the others, did he realize that a wolf before him was bowing.  
  
With a grin on his lips and sober eyes, Marco bowed to his intended husband and new King in a show of equal standing that he was proud to display. It reminded him fondly of what he and his kin would do to show their affection and equal power, in gentle licks at mouths or bellies upturned to the sky.  
  
For this human man before him, he would gladly be equal.  
  
Jean had been holding his breath for a few lasting seconds as he tested the weight around his head, the coldness of the metal seeping to his temple and making him shiver—or perhaps that was his excitement swirling in his mind and making breathing seem impossible. Bring his fingertips to caress the metal, when his nails raked over the plain oak leaf design, the brass feeling worn, Jean hummed. Eyes calm, though warm in their entirety, greeted Marco. Now, everything was alright. The crown had been enough, his father’s prompted consent had been given with it, better than any warm embrace or heirloom ring for the ceremony. Instead, Jean had a Kings crown on his head and a Kings love in his heart.  
  
Still in shock, though finding it easier to breathe as he stared down at his beloved, Jean found that he could not stand to have one so perfect and kind at his feet and bended knee. Raising Marco up with firm hands, Jean smiled easily then, the wolf’s own grin infectious to the other monarch.  
  
Though the new German King was still in the mild throes of shock, Jean felt the previous anger settle in the pit of his stomach and mollify to affirming righteousness. He had never had the opinion of loving or even liking his father, he had never planned on being a ruler—least, not in his own right. In a way he still felt like the circlet atop his head was not his, but cast its lot and power with that of the forest and those that resided in it, for after all—this land had belonged to the wolves longer than it had the humans, Jean was sure. It was only now that past wrongs were being righted, starting with the love between a human and a wolf. Jean could not stop the bemused blush flare against his cheeks at such wonderfully vain thoughts.  
  
“It suits you.” Marco stated with a light laugh, catching Jeans attention easily. Jean rolled his eyes and fiddled with the thing, positioning it left and right as he saw fit. Feeling the others fingers gently caress his hair, Jean quirked his lips into a smile, a slight mischievous one at that.  
  
Making a sharp turn to stare at his father who was seeming to debate whether he should flee from the room or hide behind a hung tapestry along the castle wall, Jean furrowed his eyes sharply. “I have your crown now.” Jean observed, the King nodding as stately as he could, only his watery eyes belaying how very uncertain of himself he was.  
  
Taking a second to smile to himself softly, he once again raised his eyes to his father—this time they were vehement in their stare. Knowing that power not only lay in the crown but in the strength of the person who donned it, Jean stood up straight and set his shoulders right. His mud flecked cloak dragging about him as well as any glorious robe, he breathed in the silence until his throat couldn’t stay quiet about his wishes any longer.  
  
“As such, I command you to leave. You may find refuge in one of the neighboring villages or perhaps in the Enchanted Forest if my new found kin will have you, it is your choice.” He growled, a low snarl of a sound that was too close in likeness to a wolves, making the removed King jolt and panic. Lip curled to show pale pink gums and bared white teeth, Jean took a step forward just as his father scrambled back like a skittering mouse.  
  
Watching him squabble in his step full of shaking limbs, the Prince felt the blood in his veins rush through him at the very real feeling of usurping. He had taken a crown from his father’s head, though seemingly willingly, and had it set atop his own. He had a blessing, though unspoken, to marry the man who was dearer to him than his own soul. He had wrestled an entire kingdom, though small in size, from his brother’s inheritance and from his father’s own wishes.  
  
A Kings word was not to be broken, and as such the crown atop his head was as good as his. The brass, settling at his temple, felt heavy but not unfriendly. The responsibility was now on his shoulders, but he could not rouse any feelings of guilt in his heart, too excited with the possibility of a new and grander life. It was time to think of his role as King over a village of humans, and wedded kin to a clan of wolves.  
  
Marco and Jean watched as the elder usurped King fled, tucking his hands deep into his robe sleeves so that they would not be nipped and snapped off by the jaws of the hound dogs. Each dog had raised their head to sniff the air as the King passed, sensing fear and thus meaning behind his escape—it was only Marco’s low rumbled hum that kept the dogs at bay from answering the call of loyalty and violence.  
  
The brothers too had been subdued, herded to their rooms under house arrest for Jean to deal with at a later time. To have their faces out of the young Kings sight was certainly reason to breathe in relief.  
  
The two Kings also took joy in hearing the old disheveled father wobbling down the hall, his heavy feet on the stairs and his shouted wailing filling the castle grounds. The howling had of course caused confusion along the lawn of the once quiet castle. Ponies were saddled and rearing in tight formations as armed guardsman, absent of their dogs, raced around the garden. Not a single one would send their mount into the fray of the shaking hedges and thickets that made up the beginning of the forest.  
  
It was brimming with wolves, and their horses could smell as such, bucking and rolling the whites of their eyes. Finding that the hearts of man had sunken into fearful respect for his pack, Marco allowed himself a moment of ease to strike him. The forest would be safe from now on, the hands of humans would not destroy it any longer—instead, dependency would reign on both beasts to live in existence unthreatened.  
  
Jean had felt the same tension leave his body. Walking a ways away from his wolf to slide his palm against another windows latch he pried it open with the curling of his fingers. Giving a quick yank, it yielded. The glass shook and vibrated as he pushed it aside, sticking his slim pointed nose out to stare at the heavy clouds above—the sunshine had been obliterated, but in its cheery place was a flurry of winter’s snow. Exhaling and watching his breath ease into the air like a puff of smoke, he turned to Marco. “Gaze upon our kingdoms, won’t you?” Jean grinned wildly, urging the other to come forward and see the slope of the forest from the height of the castle which they were nestled in. It was an amazing view, even better because they shared it together, huddled close with the necessity of warmth and adoration.  
  
Peering with sharper eyes that had become warmed with aggressive joy, Jean could make out the shifting shadows of black and brown that seemed to dart outside the forest with less trepidation. Though there was mild confusion outside from the humans running this way and that with oval shields and netting, none would yet approach the dark of the forest. Sighing sharply, Jean eyed the guards with wariness, knowing they would go no further, but still fretting just the same. To see the great creatures of the forest again and again toss their heads up and give yips and hushed howls caused the newly made King to chuckle nervously. “Relatives of yours, I presume?”  
  
Marco nodded, a sheepish smile in his eyes as he arched his head to stare out into the tops of the forests. A branch would fall or a tree trunk would shake—the sounds of the ground would hum and the snow would seem to fall with a clatter of disturbance. “That one there, that just jumped over those fallen logs? That was Reiner…and that impatient whine was Eren.” Marco chuckled, a fondness to his voice. Wrapping his arms closer to his beloved, he pressed a chaste kiss to the back of his neck. “They would all be honored to meet you.” He hummed into Jeans hair, feeling the other making a mumble of a noise in the back of his throat that was fashioned by nerves.  
  
“I would be pleased to meet their acquaintance.” Jean swallowed thickly, Marco laughing broadly at the formality of his words. Giving one last nuzzle of his nose under Jeans ear, he slid from behind the other to trail his fingers through the others grip. “Be not afraid, in their eyes you are a wolf now.” Marco assured the other, Jeans frantic face lessening in its degree of fright.  
  
“Marco, due to the technicality that is witchcraft, I am somewhat of a wolf.” Jean huffed, and Marco barked out a laugh that had the others straining lips smirking. “That is true.” He nodded his ascent, keeping Jean close to him out of selfishness for a want of contact. He was not just his lover now, but his beloved husband, such a thought sending his toes to curl in the tips of his god awful boots. “You even smell like me now.” Marco made a simpering smile that had Jean blush.  
  
“And that is important?” Jean balked, though there was a humor in his voice as he let the other lead him to the throng of wildly yipping dogs, all tails wagging furiously. Bringing a stray hand to his crown to keep it settled to his head out of nervousness, Jean cleared his throat. “I suppose it is because if I smell like you I will be better accepted as kin?”  
  
Marco patted a hound on the head as they passed the physical wall of wriggling fur, a kind smile for those guards who seemed pleased with the arrangement of a new ruler. The elder King would still have to see to it that allegiance was dutifully sworn to Jean, for though these harden looking soldiers looked upon the new transfer of power without a motion of insufferably, it was best to be careful. However, because Marco’s eyes had retreated back into their docile human like form, some of the guards could even look him in the eye and smile tensely as the two monarchs passed.  
  
“It is good and just for us to smell like each other—for to a wolf the nose is an important tool to discern connections.” Marco spoke as he tapped his nose, slowly and cautiously so that Jean could muddle through the significance. Marco would have so very much to teach Jean about being a wolf, and Jean to instruct him on how best to be a two-foot walking bag of hairless flesh.  
  
“Connections?” Jean quirked his brow, giving Marco’s hand a little squeeze as they neared the first set of stairs—any handmaiden or guard they saw on their way easily straying from them out of respect for a lovers privacy—for Jean was sure that gossip had already been well placed about the castle by the staff.  
  
“They will smell the connection of our love. That I am your mate, and you mine.” Marco whispered, leaning close to Jeans ear. At the feeling of the warm breath against his flesh, Jean almost lurched in his step as he descended the polished stairs, so embarrassed and red faced. Lightly elbowing the now chuckling wolf in his ribs, Jean grew fiery in his mock indignation. “You over-grown dog! You almost made me tumble down the stairs—a fair reign I’ve had, gone within a few minutes after I’ve been crowned!” He hissed, Marco wiping the tears of laughter from the corner of his eyes, biting his tongue with the top of his blunt teeth to keep from howling with giddiness.  
  
“A thousand pardons my King, I had not realized how effective my voice could be over you.” Marco guffawed, eliciting a spurned glare from Jean who had taken to grabbing Marco’s arm as they made their way to the last few stairs in case his clumsy feet should be his undoing.  
  
Now turning thoughtful, Marco hummed. “Though I can’t help but to imagine what you would look like as a true wolf.” At this Jean groaned, rolling his eyes. “I will have hair in places I would have never wanted, and a tail for swatting you in the face. That is what my glamorous life will be for a moons time.” Jean grumbled, but Marco knew he too was curious, and so the wolf King only smiled.  
  
Though the hall was well lit with torches burning bright with pitch and pine, the wind howled through from the open doors to frost the two with chills. Tugging his cloak round him tighter, Jean kept his tallness about him as he and Marco walked out to the garden, elbows bent at the crook as they sided close to one another. Their smiles that were once nervous had now settled, and though quips of jokes Marco still wished to make to diffuse the tension he could feel coursing through Jeans veins, he knew it better to regain an air of seriousness about him. For now, Jean was to meet a pack of beasts that, for perhaps almost all his life, he had been told would not hesitate to eat him alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know if any of you readers were surprised ahaha, but yeah, Jean's a King in his own right now. He and Marco are essentially this AU's power-couple, bless.


	12. Wedding Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A winter wedding really is the most beautiful option, is it not?

The garden was peaceful when they set foot upon the snow, pretty flakes of ice melting in their hair. Marco had no qualms about shaking his head like a wet hound to rid his locks of the sticky cold, but Jean stood still, eyes wide. The few dogs that had bothered to follow them upon the flagstone out to the garden began to whine, sniffing the air and bounding in quick turns around the two Kings. They, too, could sense the shift and change in the cool stale air, and as such became incorrigible to their panics. It was when one of them, a giant gray fellow with gnarled looking ears caught the whiff of a much larger, wilder animal, that all dogs bolted from the two stranded Kings in a powder of white. Marco could not fault their whimpering’s, and instead let them escape with a wry smile for what was to come. Jean, however, seemed to grow white from fear as he watched them flee, as if he wished he too could run away.  
  
“Jean, come. Let’s please sit down first, there’s no need to rush.” Marco’s voice seemed to shock something inside Jean, for the shorter of the two jumped and quirked his eyebrows curiously. “Did you not want me to meet your family that calls you their brood?” Jean let the other guide him to the little marble bench that had sufficed as an intimate meeting spot for the two during their courtship—or what Marco could now fondly view upon as their courtship, Jean was sure.  
  
“Aye, I do, but that can indeed wait until you catch your breath.” Marco laughed softly, though his face was still pity and pain eyed as he set Jean close to him, his hands piled and pooled into his own lap. Clutching the fingers softly, he breathed, and a wisp of smoke seemed to be pulled from his mouth. “This is important to me, but I wish that you would not be so nervous—each and every one of my kin will adore you as much as I do.” Marco assured the other, but Jean could only sour his face in folly filled annoyance.  
  
“I am all but a stranger to them, for I am sure you have never told them that you had feelings of love for a human.” Jean huffed. As Marco’s mouth began to open to interject with heartfelt excuses, Jean put a stop to it with a serious draw of his eyes. “I do not blame you nor do I mind, we both had our secrets, lord knows.” Jean rolled his eyes before continuing, his words failing him less and less as Marcos thumb began to caress his wrist. It was a nice feeling and it gave him comfort.  
  
“I only...I only wish to please them, and while something as simple as that you assure me I already have done and can continue to do, I am still...” Jean let his voice trail off, the nervous pounding of his heart and the twisted look of embarrassment on his face letting Marco know exactly how he felt.  
  
“Oh, my dear.” Marco whispered, the wind above stronger than his careful voice in that moment. “Fret not, and take comfort in knowing that I understand your heart. It does not matter in which place nor which form we love, for the love will always be there. Others will see us in our delight and rejoice along with us. We will rule together and will love each other, much as we always have.” Marco smiled around his words, making them sound even more beautiful to Jean.  
  
With a careful biting at the inside of his cheek, Jean nodded softly. He felt better, that much was true. Marco was so good to him, so calming and soothing that Jean could hardly any longer feel a thread of strife wring his heart.  
  
Petting the back of the other’s shoulders, Marco rested his chin upon one and made a thoughtful noise. “Speaking of these matters has made me quite resolved, and yet I find we have forgotten something that some of you humans seem to be so fond of.” Jean could not mistake the amusement in the others voice, and in turning, met the coy, now a beautiful dark brown, eyes of the other.  
  
“Oh?” Jean snorted, bringing one of his hands to cup at the side of Marco’s face, careful strong fingers combing through the wolf’s sweat and snow dampened hair.  
  
“Mmm...” Marco sighed, finding it troublesome to decide whether he should nuzzle into the wonderfully warm shoulder that smelled like Jean, or into the gentle motions of Jeans palm as it caressed him lovingly. After a few seconds, though, impatience began to ease into the air.  
  
“Do get on with it!” Jean snapped, though there was no maliciousness in his words, making Marco chuckle and simper. Spending just a few more seconds hoarding his words, Marco finally let them out into the bright white air with the beginnings of a sheepish smile.  
  
“When should we have our wedding?”  
  
Jean balked, the face he made delighting Marco to no end. Biting the tip of his tongue to keep from howling out an absurd laughter, the wolf merely chuckled deep in his chest, his chin grinding softly into the crook of Jeans neck as he nuzzled the other.  
  
Shocked and with lips sputtering, Jeans made a noise akin to a squeak, trying to find his words. Finding that he could not hide his blush in the crook of his shoulder without banging his forehead into Marcos, nor without giving Marco more meddling room to continue pressing little chaste kisses up the side of his tunic collar, Jean relented with a nervous pout.  
  
“You ask such terribly bold questions.” Jean mumbled. Grinning and being delighted at the surprise of the other blushing, Marco hummed. “But, this is not a terrible question, I take it?” He returned, and Jean sighed with a hiss, that lingering blush still coloring his cheeks.  
  
“It is not.” Jean relented, snorting with amusement as Marco began to all but wiggle in his seat at the bench, the little slab of stone a bit too small to contain them both on the same seat. The Wolf King thus settled for all but shifting his weight against Jeans hip, the newly-made King himself having no quarrels about how close in touching they were. They were to be married after all, weren’t they?  
  
“I think I have the answer, but it leads to another question.” Jean was thoughtful, staring out over the white dusted hedges and feeling the knot in his gut grow as he saw movement dash along the forests edge, getting closer and closer.  
  
Distracted by the words of the other, Marco bit his lips into a barely contained smile of glee. Leaning in close, his nose brushed Jeans, making each other’s cheeks grow warm as they practically breathed each other’s breaths. “Oh?” He asked, a tremor of well-placed delight still bubbling in his throat. Jean smiled softly, humoring him with a warm pat on his cheek.  
  
“We shall have the wedding immediately. The question is, where should we be wed?” His fingers slid down the others jaw, knuckles feeling the worst of winters chill while his palm was warm from the flesh beneath it. Marco closed his eyes and smiled, peaceful in its entirety. When his eyes opened he untangled himself from the heat of Jean’s embrace, pulling the other up astride him so that their feet began to sink into the wet slush.  
  
“I know where we shall have it.” He whispered, and Jean had to lean in close to hear, though he did not mind. Wrapping an arm around his lovers shoulder, the wolfish King kissed Jeans temple softly, mindful of the circlet of brass atop his head. “Walk with me?” He murmured, and Jean nodded, turning his eyes to where Marco’s rested softly.  
  
The wind blew louder throughout the garden, like some mountains breath weaving through the pines and dusted firs, as if the howling of the air came from the heart of the wilderness itself. It seemed to chill Jeans resolve, if only for a second, inviting dreaded hesitation to slow his steps.  
  
“You wish for me to go in there now?” Jean spoke softly, eyes trained on the tightly clamped teeth of the iron grate that separated the quiet walled garden from that of the rustling thrumming forest that boasted life. Pressing his slight hands against his cloak front, his wrinkled shirt and trimmings, he did his best to feel presentable, for how else should one look to face an entire furred clan of royal beasts?  
  
“I do, but you will not be alone, I shall be there.” Marco reminded the other with a chaste kiss at the back of his neck, the skin cold and smelling faintly of sweat. Jean nodded softly, unclenching his fingers and seeking out Marco’s own hand once more. “I know I shall not be alone, your whole family is awaiting me to make their acquaintance.” Jean huffed wryly, causing Marco to give a clipped laugh, pleased that Jean could still be his coarse self.  
  
It was when they could hear the excitement brewing in the forest that Marco urged him forward, footsteps careful to not slip on the cobblestone walk way. Jean could now not only hear the packs interested yips and low murmured growls, but he could see the flitting hind legs kick up before they were swallowed by a thicket of barren blackberry bushes or a pillar of dark shadow that was a rotting elm.  
  
They, the creatures, were growing louder, and Jean assumed that having Marco so close to him was causing their precious beastly nerves to restlessness. He was sure those long snouted beings could smell their leader, could smell the fear of the one he was sided up with as smitten as anyone in love. Jean faltered in his step.  
  
Marco pressed a kiss to his cold cheek and his thick dark hair tickled Jeans nose as he urged him forward, eyes solidly fixed on the gathering snow about them. The wind shook the pine boughs ahead, the frost making everything shimmer like glass ready to break.  
  
Eyes widening and dimming as the sun shifted behind the clouds, Marco watched his beloved’s gentle steps. He chided himself faintly for not creating a better matched time to have his lover and family become acquainted, but there was only so much Marco could do to placate the curiosity of wolves.  
  
It didn’t take long for Jean to all but curse his hesitation finally, raising his hand to the iron as the snow melted on his fingertips and he shivered. Clutching the gates latch, Jean felt the metal burn along his palm with its sticking rime. With one last stumbling breath and an ill-measured sense of assurance, Jean yanked the lock back and watched the world of white sink into a darkness with swarming eyes.  
  
They came like a fury, like mythical beasts leaping from all the fantastical books Jean had horded in his room’s shelves and trunks. Hefty ones dove with short snouts and skinny ones with dripping teeth pounced, ones that walked on spindly legs like stilts howled, and others that bounded up and down had an excitement that could not be curbed within their burning eyes. They all had fur that seemed to swim, looking to be as soft as a princess’s silk shift or as rough as a pines bark. All ranging in coat colors, it was as if they were autumn leaves that had been shaken from a trees limb to pile around Jean and his beloved. Dusky blonds and coal blacks, sleet gray and clouded whites. It made Jean wildly wonder what his own fur, when it came to sprout from his delicate human skin, would look like.  
  
Certainly they were not all as big as Jean remembered Marco to be, and yet their size and wild eyes did the trick in quickening his pulse and shuttering his breath to stopping. Some sat on their haunches and others stood proudly on all four paws dug into the earth, though it did not matter in which way they perched themselves. Like a cohesive one, they all watched him with a fascination that Jean had before been certain only humans could possess.  
  
He could already see which wolves were the bravest, and perhaps, the proudest. Long legs bent at the hocks, they would not sit patiently, could not be expected to be still. Eyes roaming the two before them with confused little whimpers, they all ceased their hacked barking when the lankiest, a she-wolf with black ticked fur like Marco’s, took a long draught of a sniff before her. Jean knew her to be Ymir, and already he was terribly afraid of her. All that was at the core of her being invoked stories of hungry wolves snapping at the ankles of hapless little children on their merry way through the woods.  
  
Her lips curled back for a split second as if she smelt something not entirely right, but before Jean could faint at the sight of her brutal yellow teeth, she huffed and her fangs were covered by her equally as frightening red tongue. Jean took a quick turn to Marco but found that his face was pleased, eyes earnest as he stared back at the other wolf without so much as a blink. Before Jean could croak out an expletive of terror, she gave them one last look with a huff from her snout before ducking behind the shrubs. Striding slowly back into the forest shadows that hid her so well it was as if she became the mist herself, she was gone.  
  
Jean could feel Marco at his back then, his chin resting on the young Kings shoulders as if he was worn and tired but happily so, like his heart was full. Jean could feel his breathing easily enough at his cold bitten cheeks, and could feel his arms warm him through his own wet mopped cloak. Chuckling deep in his chest, a movement Jeans own body shifted against with a shiver, Marco hummed his satisfaction.  
  
“Where is she going?” Jean whispered, and he saw Marcos eyes grow sheepish as he took a step forward, his arms still round Jean, though now they were shoulder to shoulder. “She is sickened by how much I cling to you, like a spry wolf at his mate’s jowls.” Marco laughed, and the blush that climbed his neck matched Jeans own and made him happily embarrassed. “Oh.” He cleared his throat, now feeling suddenly the enormous weight of what must be an entire pack of wolves’ judgement upon him. Did they think him indecent? Perhaps a match unwell for their King?  
  
“She likes you though, and they do too.” He assured Jean, taking a careful step forward that Jean found himself replicating, concentrating on the sound of his footfalls breaking puddles of ice and not on his monstrously pounding heart. “Just like that, I am accepted?” Jeans voice trembled, sounding nasally as he tried to scrape by with as much air in his lungs as he could suck down without whimpering. He tried to not dart his eyes about him frantically, for he was certain such would be bad decorum and would make him appear more like a timid rabbit than an intended husband to a wolf.  
  
Marco stopped his steps to let Jean catch his breath. Near them a few wolves began to twitch their long snouts, snuggling against each other’s scruffs. They whined softly to each other in voices that Jean knew were capable of human speech, though they denied him to rudely eavesdrop. What stubborn in-laws.  
  
Marco seemed to take an interest in what they were saying, however, as his eyes sparkled with amusement. Smiling and leaning in close to Jean he gave the other a kiss that while quick, had Jean melting into his boots. Parting and feeling that much dizzier than before, Jean inhaled the crisp air of the road that met the forest and the warm soothing scent of the King before him. In the little that they had traveled, they now stood humbly at the center of the sunken lane between the garden and the quiet darkened woods.  
  
“I love you and they can see that, can smell it, and hear it in my hearts beat.” Marco assured the other and his soft voice gave Jean a tremor of courage, his jaw clenched stubbornly into a smile that only wobbled some. All it took to make the curl of his lips more genuine was another soft kiss by his husband who was more than happy to oblige in showing his adoration. “I hope that you can see that of me too, how much I love you.” Jean whispered to the other, and Marcos eyes shown, letting Jean know that he indeed had. He had waited for this day for the longest of time, through many moments of heartsick and many sparks of exhilaration, and to have it happen now with his lovers hand in his? It made the wolf Kings heart swell like a full moon cast about the stars.  
  
Jeans own heart was leaping in his throat, though now it did not pain him as much as invigorated him. Squeezing the others arm he took to walking like a noble should—fearless and in delight of everything around him. It was his wedding day, and he had his groom astride him smiling a wolfish beam, with a canopy of beautiful snow and pine as his church, and a throng of overgrown wolves as his laity. It was a fine day to get married, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ymir as a wolf never ceases to amuse me omfg


	13. All According to Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little birdie and a witch in a tree, watching two Kings K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

The white elm shook as two very important wedding guests shifted and craned their dangling limbs to get a clearer view of the royal ceremony. The Witch’s eyes were misty and they repeatedly grabbed at the crow-man’s cravat to dab at their face, the little scrap of linen getting more and more tear stained by the minute. As soon as they made a move to blow their dribbling nose into the cloth, the jet haired creature scowled and slapped one of their hands away.  
  
“Honestly, I don’t know why you’re bawling.” Levi huffed, finding it harder to breathe with the others spindly hand fisted into their vest front.  
  
“I’m not bawling, this is the face of someone whose hard work has paid off!” They insisted, whirling their gaze onto the other with finality. Levi only curled his lip. “It’s a face that’s disgusting.” He stated, causing his witch to smirk, their bushy brows raising and falling as they laughed, swinging their legs back and forth so that the branches groaned and wobbled.  
  
Zoe hummed, their eyes spying the wedding party again after their bought of giggles ceased. The two grooms had been standing by the lower ditch that led to the ice drenched road, peering right into the mouth of the witch’s home. The forest would welcome them both kindly, so long as they kept to their pacts as laid out by the magical being.  
  
Already Zoe could feel the nervous delight on their faces, the younger human undoubtedly more frightened than the noble wolf who had already faced his worse trials back inside the castles mortar.  
  
They could see the pack of wolves now, skirting the edge, and they watched a giant one slunk her way over a fallen log to give the human King a shock of fright. Zoe smirked as they saw the newly appointed Kings fear, though as fast as it came it dissipated just as quickly, probably due to the warm hands around his middle and the chaste kisses at his neck.  
  
They then began to move together, as couples ought to, tight against one another in the face of the flurries of snow and the widened eyes of wolves too curious to contain their yips and croons.  
  
As they moved, so did others. Far off on the road Zoe could see them, serfs leading their masters draft horses by their drooping reigns as they pulled two wheeled carts heaped with gnarled twigs for firewood, their children clutching cloth dollies to their chests as they teetered on the oak bench seats. Women dragging stubborn goats that had escaped into the chill of the snow paused, a breath of fright on their lips as they saw the peeking wolves from the forest looking as happy as they pleased in front of their Prince—no, their new King! None of those passing by the roads would climb further than the highest mole hill to get a closer look, though they whispered amongst themselves easily enough. It was when they realized that they were in the midst of a wedding that they allowed their once fearful wet eyes to shine with brightness.  
  
The wolves too, Zoe knew, could smell the stink of human. The witch watched with their owl-like sight at the pointed ears that twitched and the lips that curled but eased back again, tongues lopsidedly resting in blood red mouths. They would not dive out of their shadows to wrench at the human peasants necks, would not let the luster of the winter sun to touch them lest those dressed in woolen cloaks and handkerchiefs peer at them gapingly. They instead satisfied themselves amongst each other with the thought that it was them—not the humans—who had the best seats in witnessing the royal ceremony. As it should be, they would yip to one another, as it should be. They were the more important guests, they told themselves.  
  
It was good, however, that neither those loyal to either at the wedding party decided to let vengeance get the better of them. For any group, be they human or wolf, to slaughter each other at a wedding—it would be terribly uncouth!  
  
Zoe cackled.  
  
“How can you be so sure this will work out? You will tolerate having these two creatures and their kin swamping your land?” The crow’s eyes were dark and harsh, his nerves grating at the sound of that laugh that was so careless, it made him wonder why the other was not at all cautious.  
  
Levis slackened hands came to right his white shift under his black cloak, the witches fingers having returned to their own lap for the time being as they quieted their amusement. He watched those hands twist and gnarl and then smooth themselves out again as if excitement was coursing in the blood that warmed them. It probably was, judging by Zoe’s grin.  
  
“We both know who the forest really belongs to.” Zoe winked and Levi tried not to bristle in the face of that toothy laugh.  
  
But as certain as that smile appeared, it was gone with a swiftness that would have anyone less accustomed to the witch’s moods reeling. Levi for one, braced himself, for that gleam in the others eye was shining brighter than any stone round the others neck.  
  
“Of course I’m sure,” they hummed to themselves, their breath hot as it cut through the mist of winter. “For a long time I hated this territories King, and I knew the little Prince would be the one to overthrow him.” They stated matter of fact, spitting at the ground in defiance of the one whom they hated to address.  
  
Going more agitated still, Zoe rolled their shoulders and kicked their feet once more till the leather laces at their boots came undone in the air and flopped about like the whiskers of a cat touched by the wind. Mud flecked and flew, specks sinking into the graying snow. Below them a few wolves howled and Levi and Zoe could see the two lovers embracing. “I used to live in the village, you know. All by my lonesome.” They confided, pressing a palm to their mouth to breathe heat back into their skin, clenching and unclenching the long white fingers.  
  
They thought about their time in that village, in their little house on stilts that sank deep into the winter mud no matter how many times Zoe had tried to raise it—no metal bindings the blacksmith could provide could stop nature taking its frustrating course. They reminisced on how they used to set their wooden buckets underneath the white birch trees, collecting the sugary sap in the spring, and how much work it was to boil it all down in their cast iron cauldron to make just a little bit of sugary wine. They recalled following the wild striped pigs that trotted around the edge of the forest to dig up the roots the animals found, the pigs too cowardly to peek past the first row of trees that boasted wild animals thrice their size. Zoe too used to be too afraid to enter that forest, back when they felt they had no claim to it. They remembered loving it though, and its impossible depth even when they had never set foot farther than when the trees cleared in the winter and became spindly as bones.  
  
They had many memories about their life and their role in the village—once they were held in high esteem and could live on their own good name as well as their talents. Zoe seemed to always have the best things to sell—rose syrups for ones cramps, chamomile for rotted toothaches, and a bit of elm bark for those pesky bruises from overworking ones tired flesh. They sold other things too, things that mothers crossed themselves as they purchased, that men whispered for behind their drooping leather caps, that only passing strangers would be bold enough to ask straight out for with a frown as if they didn’t quite believe the rumors.  
  
But now those memories were far away and unobtainable, a life lost that the witch of the Enchanted Forest did not have a longing to reclaim. To live a life in that village again would be nothing short of confinement in a glass jar—within this vast ocean of trees they were fathoms happier than anywhere else they could set their roots. It was the wilds of the forest that they found their true home, and Zoe knew they had no need for a little house cramped against a village square. But, their mind would still sometimes reminisce, and mourn.  
  
“I was there when he was crowned King.” Zoe couldn’t stop their mouth from assuming a wicked smile, as if they had bitten into something sour but their lips tweaked upward of their own accord.  
  
Levi didn’t speak, his frown drawing into a tight line as he stared ahead at the two dawdling in the snow. The Wolf King was nuzzling his new husband’s cheeks raw, the younger squawking as he blushed and nudged him with his elbows. The human’s kinsman were coming closer now, chortling and leaning on each other and their carts. Gossip of a feast later in the night hung in the air like thick smoke.  
  
“He asked me on his coronation day if he would be blessed with a rich kingdom. I told him that he would be blessed with two lazy sons who were plump as ripened fruit for the wolves to devour, and one son with fire in his eyes, who would ultimately see such an unworthy King fail.” Zoe clenched their fists like a vice around the corded wood that the two were resting upon.  
  
“I said to him, no. Your kingdom will not be rich, your kingdom will burn right before your eyes.” Their gaze was dull as they watched the wedding. “I told no lie of course. But maybe I should have. That night, I awoke to my house ablaze, smoke strangling my throat.”  
  
Zoe could feel the other next to them strain, as if wings underneath his skin were beating violently against bones and muscles, getting twisted in his flesh like a bird caught in a net.  
  
“I ended up finding my true home, though—and I met you.” Their eyes flicked to stare at the other, regarding his shoulders and how they were pacified, the arch of them easing and his neck straightening as he huffed.  
  
“The forest is much better for me, of course.” Zoe assured the other, taking to flit their legs about one more time, shaking down the gathered snow that had swathed itself along what was left of the trees leaves. Levi scowled as snow melted along the skin of his neck. He sent a glare to his companion, one that they affectionately refused to entertain.  
  
“Really though, humans are so strange, if I had to spend another minute with one I’d surely pull at my hair and stamp about.” They fixed the drooping of their glasses, not minding that dewy drops of mist obscured their vision of the two husbands for the slightest of moments. By now the two were married—the howls of wolves and the excited clang of cow bells rung by peasants sounding as such into the early winter air.  
  
“Do you know the curious little creatures call me a trickster? Ha!” Clapping their hands together, Zoe bite the tip of the tongue, the appendage quickly turning red in the cold.  
Levi rolled his eyes.  
  
“If the name fits…” he mumbled. Zoe knocked their elbow into his side, letting out a chuckle before their eyes squinted into the haze of white and slowly churning gold. The sun was shining behind the delicate folds of the clouds and the wind was less fierce now, the pair could even hear the chirping calls of the red cardinals alongside them.  
  
“Oh, they’ve gone inside.” They commented, seeing the foot tracks in the snow lead out of the road ditch and towards the swinging garden gate. Paw prints astride shoe prints—how decidedly heartwarming it was, Zoe mused.  
  
Already they could hear the clanging pots in the kitchens, logs of cedar and pine being dragged inside to feed the fires that would make roasted meats, breads, and all sorts of sticky sweets that children and mewling wolf pups alike would enjoy. They heard too musicians strike up their flimsy bows of gut and twine, the clumsy sounds of wolves trying to dance and humans trying to howl. Zoe took special delight in seeing all the handmaidens in the garden fluttered about all in a blur as if they were snowflakes. The wind carried their growls of frustration that their new King had had a mind to get married in the early throes of winter when there wasn’t a twig of lilac or a sprig of rose to be found for decorating. The oak tables in the mead hall would just have to be set sparsely with holly and juniper berries and that was that, they decided!  
  
Easing up on the branches that had faithfully and patiently carried both their weight this long, Zoe arched their back and sighed like a cat that had taken the dairy pan all to themselves. “Come, I have some raisin wine we can celebrate with back in our woods.” They grinned, a sliver of a smile that was contagious—for how else could Levi explain how he had come to smirk just the same?  
  
The way to the cabin was cold, but the two didn’t mind—least, not Zoe, who kept warm by running like a child over wet logs and frosted boulders, the mud they kicked up acting like unfriendly spurs on the back of their legs. Levi’s teeth chattered and his breath blew chilled smoke, but he very poignantly refused to run. Instead, he watched Zoe hoot with laughter till they almost ran into a tree, knocking their spectacles into a soggy puddle just the same.  
  
Pausing in his step, Levi waited for the other to fish them out with cold tipped fingers. Watching Zoe give them a good shake and a wipe before hanging them on their nose once more, Levi huffed, staring about the forest that had become his home as well as theirs.  
  
“Was their marriage part of your prophecy? The one you told the King, I mean.” Levi asked, the forest echoing the screech of an owl far off in a woody hollow.  
  
Zoe let a quiet smile escape their lips before they scrunched up their shoulders in a shrug. They picked up their feet and, ignoring the other, started walking up the path to their home, the cabin having peeked through the thicket in a miraculous way that Levi tried his hardest to not be surprised by anymore.  
  
“Was it?” He asked, not bothering to keep up with the others longer strides. His black brows were drawn close to his temple and Zoe turned back quickly on their toes to poke their pointer finger at the wrinkles that all his frowning was making. He hissed crossly, swatting at them. Zoe laughed.  
  
“It wasn’t, was it? Not originally, at least.” He proposed, rolling his heels steadily into the wet leaves as Zoe began to skip and leap ahead once more.  
  
“I knew the Prince would rise to power, and I knew the wolves would be there alongside him.” They cackled, running faster and faster till Levi couldn’t see them anymore. He could only hear the pounding of the others footfalls as they bounded up the rickety steps of the stilted cottage. Running his hands over his cold stiff arms he continued walking to meet the other.  
  
“So you made them get married?” Levi asked, exasperated and scowling at the thought that this witch might have made him fly about pestering a giant wolf for their own amusement instead of a destined plan written in smoke and stones that could obviously be counted on.  
  
“I didn’t make anyone do anything.” Zoe huffed, though there was a glow in their eyes that was full of merriment. “What else was to happen? The Wolf King pined for a forbidden love, the human Prince gladly gave his heart to the mysterious stranger. It’s all very reasonable.” They nodded to themselves and Levi wanted to yell about the absurdity of it, but his chattering teeth wouldn’t allow it, so he settled for snarling.  
  
“That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.” Levi growled, not looking them in the eyes for fear he might be swept up in all this folly.  
  
“It was more fun this way! They also owe me favors now.” Zoe insisted, feeling around their throat to undo their cloaks broach, tugging it off as they rounded the last set of steps. Soon they would be nice and warm in their cabin, a glass of wine in their hand and a warm fire at their back. They wiggled their toes at the sheer wonderful prospect of it.  
  
Now atop the last beam, Zoe staggered at its summit, as if it was a great mountain they had just climbed and not a few measly mossy wooden planks. Watching Levi seethe at the bottom, Zoe snorted and dismissed him with a wave of their hand. Ignoring his brooding in favor of gazing at the quiet forest that the witch loved so dearly, they breathed in the sweet moldy air about them.  
  
It was the most beautiful breath they had ever taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stories almost comin' to an end!!! Isn't this exciting?


End file.
